Watching others love
        is something
many do, I guess –
not so much a pastime
        as a mode
of grasping gentleness
the present time
        withholds –
bending with our feeling
to stroke some tired cheek,
        unseen,
as the other bends
truly, and receives.
        Here begins
our concert, in the hush
of restraint. Love
        embarrasses.
It is hard to know why.
It shows itself in fits
        like a cough
blurted out to trouble others
as they wrestle to listen
        when required,
love aside. Gesture is the
accident of love –
        its naked speech.
I can’t think what other
language would have
        a word for it –
this child pulling closed
the lapels of her father’s suit.

Judith Bishop