Woodshadows . Ulysses

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning
peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore
and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by
lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The
twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the
harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite
wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly,
shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a
bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’ song: I sang it alone in the
house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and
pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched
bed. For those words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery.
Where now?