Slipping at long last from the shore, we wave
         To no one in the house
With a dismantled chimney, a sprung gate,
         And five bare windows,
And begin this excursion under thorny vines
         Trailing like streamers
Over the mainstream, in our inflated life raft,
         Bluer and yellower 
Than the sky and sun which hold the day together.
         My love, upstream,
Be the eyes behind me, saying yes and no.
         I’m manning the short oars
Which must carry us with the current, or without it,
         Six miles to our pasture.
There go the mallards patched with gray and white
         By their tame feathers;
Down from the leaves the kingfishers branching go
         Raucous under the willows
And out of sight; the star-backed salmon are waiting
         For the rain to rise above us;
And the wind is sending our raft like a water spider
         Skimming over the surface.
We begin our lesson here, our slight slow progress,
         Sitting face to face,
Able to touch our hands or soaking feet
         But not to kiss
As long as we must wait at opposite ends,
         Keeping our balance,
Our spirits cold as the Sammamish mud,
         Our tempers rising
Among the drifts like the last of the rainbows rising
         Through the remaining hours
Till the sun goes out. What have I done to us?
         I offer these strands,
These unromantic strains, unable to give
         Such royal accompaniment
As horns on the Thames or bronze bells on the Nile
         Or the pipes of goatmen,
But here, the goats themselves in the dying reeds,
         The ringing cows
And bullocks on the banks, pausing to stare
         At our confluence
Along the awkward passage to the bridge
         Over love’s divisions.
Landing at nightfall, letting the air run out
         Of what constrained us,
We fold it together, crossing stem to stern,
         Search for our eyes,
And reach ourselves, in time, to wake again
         This music from silence.