Turning

Standing at the end of the bridge
we stood
suspended in the moment of anger
that parting must come as the inevitable end.
Though no surprise,
we stand at the end of the road, end of the bridge, the end that finally has to come,
to all the best cameraderies of the worlds we build and leave behind.
You held me lightly like a parasol in your hand
and I let your touch caress and gently part
with the fingertips still following the marks
of the caress that would not leave.
I know, the next moment I am going to fly as you let me go
like the parasol held lightly in your hand.
Is it the joy or is it the fear
as the parasol drifts on the wind
from a high cliff towards a sky?
A gentle fall, a gentle way
to let one go
to the gentle freedom of the blue.
And suddenly I turn and cling to you,
every limb resisting the rift,
every desire holding back the drift,
back from the onward tide.
I never knew a desire so mighty could turn a tide
and I could swim backward to the beginning of all times.
And there in that moment time stopped, the currents ceased;
That was the final stroke of destiny
when all we saw was eternity.