Wagner, unrequited over Mathilde,
retreats to music, romances Tristan
and Isolde to death. Yet I seem to heed
a scene of Tristan wandering distant
dark valley, sensing bare light, and finding
a beachhead at predawn. Tide beckons him
in and under, yet he senses life, sings
of Isolde, turns to see her racing rim
of cliff toward him, to him. He runs, rises
with her and deep into her. Bare bodies
glow in dawning light. No plight, no crises.
Only flesh, mind and spirit melding peace
and passion as honest lovers must. Dreams
lace their whispers. The graceful ocean gleams.
Roger Armbrust
September 3, 2016
