The Man Who Fell to Earth

He fell from a clear sky,
made no sound.
I heard the rush, looked up
and there he stood -
dusting pollen, yellow, from his thighs. 
He stood among the flowers.

He stood casually, was quiet,
his hair a long strong cascade of gold.
He looked at me - his eyes not dark, not light,
not green, not brown ...

Of course I had to take him home
for he had nowhere else to go.
His pace was measured, slow,
and he stood an age
staring at the sky, the clouds, 
pressed his ear to trees

He had no speech, only eyes
green and wild with thought, 
attentive to the smallest thing, 
eloquent and drinking.

I swear he could hear 
a bird on the wing 
in the next glen, 
for he would angle his head at nothing, 
listen, and his eyes would gleam.

When he looked from the window 
I knew 
his sight could leap the mountains, 
touch the sea.

I combed his hair till time stopped,
a curtain of falling gold ...
In the fire's silence he would lie 
on the floor, cheek to the wood,
and dew would bead his skin 
as the fire died and heat dropped.
In the dawn his skin would flush and steam.
In the sun's gold he became 
a golden man.

In the firelight, I remember how his eyes -
not dark, not light
not brown, not green -
would gleam as they looked into mine.

They made me dream, 
they called to me
to look in them, to swim 
his wide, cold pool of almond and emerald.
He made me taste the light, kiss the skin of time, 
feel the coolness in a moonbeam, hear the roar
of ancient suns.

In his hands were swords and horses,
wood and stone.  The thought that lights
a god's eyes were behind his own.

He took me to a place
I have never been again
and all this world is dun and bare
in comparison.  
His moorland and mountain 
of purple, gold and green,
showed me a home 
I have never seen.

When morning came, 
I laid my palm on his smooth skin
and where I touched, a flower bloomed.

He left me, one dawn in Spring, and where he
went I do not know.  
But a white horse visits
and slowly crops my grass.  
In his quiet eyes I catch 
the green and almond scent of him,
my golden man, my gift of god,
and the thought of him 
still beads my floors with dew
in the morning.
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