The measure of all love is idle talk.
Time comes when passion like a fountain falls
And soaks to earth, the endless air is still,
Withdrawn the touch and flesh to flesh no longer calls.
Then is the testing of congruity.
If in that emptiness a trivial thought,
Like a penguin making for the sea
Or lone galah that tumbles on a wire for sport,
Comes forward wanting to be heard, assured
Of welcome, knowing word on word will follow
Until a flock of happy aimless birds,
Comic or grave, people the place that once was hollow,
Then may the lovers be assured that love
Has in their lives found root in flesh, in separate
Minds the anchored freedom of a tree
That with its slender bole binds branches wild and disparate.