Refugee

I know my friend,
that the splendour of the moon, full,
moves you to your quiet wonder,
and the memory
gentle but grievous
of the man who gazes
into that far night sky
to glean from the alphabet of stars
some private intimation
in the public heaven
of his favoured forevered daughter.
And you, behind those unyoung eyes
still sometimes given to laughter,
harbour a plangent ache of unknowing.
Your few words tell more
in this new tongue
than the eloquence of mastery might.
At least I like to think
I can read the silences.
Yet you have your peace.
The moon does not fail,
and that suffices.
Her certainty
is strange solace but sure.
(after Psalm 72:7)