Classic Poem

We walked mutely
over black moors
where gray walls crawl
Sinuously into still horizons.

I was mute —
a sticky bud
only to unfurl
in the germination of your mood.

But you called gray rain
to slake my heart:
you called gray mist
over the black moors.

We passed black altars of rock:
two mute processional docile Christs
amid the unheeding