Ithaca

And then I returned,
I pulled off my stiff and salty sailor's clothes,
slipped on the dress of the girl I was,
and slid overboard.
A mile from Ithaca, I anchored the boat.

The evening softened and spread,
the turquoise water mentioning its silver fish,
the sky stooping to hear.
My hands moved in the water, moved on the air,
the lover I was, tracing your skin, your hair,

and Ithaca there, the bronze mountains
shouldered like rough shields,
the caves, where dolphins hid,
dark pouches for jewels,
the olive trees ripening theirs tears in our pale fields.

Then I drifted in on a ribbon of light,
tracking the scent of rosemary, lemon, thyme,
the fragrances of your name,
which I chanted again in my heart,
like the charm it was, bringing me back

to Ithaca, all hurt zeroed now
by the harm you could do with a word,
me as a hero plainly absurd,
wading in, waist-high, from the shallow at dusk,
dragging my small white boat.

Carol Ann Duffy in Rapture