in
the old attic, on a
win
dow sill
stood a lonely
instrument
made of gold
and brass.
your
eyes wandered over it
more
than once
following
your eyes went
your slow steps
on past
un
iforms in boxes, and
moon
charts stacked.
and softly out
your fingertips
traced the thing
and leant
it
so that you might gauge the
fit
of the
needle, lain on
its body.
the whispered name:
"sextant."
you
picked it up quite gently
drew
the base
eye level and
stood in a
precise stance.
one boot
back
poised, you shifted then to
track
the line
the sun left on
the earth's edge.
horizon.
minute
ad
justments quietly were
had
through the
patience of your
fingertips,
which then went
base to
spine.
and you took your loving
time
and eased
dials by degrees
and oh that
concentrated
face you
made.
lord it always kills me.
raids
my lungs
for all their air.
brass eyepiece
to open
green eye
took
measurement with a swift
look
(just one).
calculate the
figures in
your clever head.
the sky
gave
you your silent answers,
haze
softened
the summer at
tic's oaken
atmosphere.
and then,
when
you gently lowered it,
then
you did
take notice of
my rapt gaze.
in that soft
moment,
com
posed of vast green treeline,
some
brass, your
steady hands,
my fond smile,
window breeze
and thought,
no
man in that stock-still world
though
lovely
he may be,
could have outdone
the quaint charm that
you brought
right
back to life in attic
light,
splendor,
and nothing
but the instrument
and fine posture
to aid
you
as you did as they
do
in the
navy, my old
soul soldier
smiling up
forever at the sun and the
measurements you made.
\\\
