The Lotus-Eaters

They offered us fruit,
the colour of dead moons.

Not sweet,
not bitter -

something quieter.

The taste of regret -
or the hollow ribs
of love.

One by one,
the stars lay down
in the grass,
as though the earth
finally forgave them.

Perhaps memory
is just another kind of star
that we keep hanging there
because we need something
to crash our grief against.

At night,
I hear your name
growing distant inside me,
like drowned oars disappearing
into the black river of night.

There will be no victory.
There will be no courage.
There will be no return.

The waters seemed to say,
as they closed behind us.