Ramp Among the Stars

You wake at night to sparks
like blue and yellow bullets
whizzing by the glass
and a familiar electronic hum.

On investigation you find him 
busy in the black mask and you 
cover your face until a pause gives him space
to see you, the question in your eyes

"I'm welding moon beams to make
a ramp among the stars"
his eyes are kinder than
even your mother's at Evie's birth.

The night glows among the 
jasmine flowers and tickles softly
at the hardest part of your jaw bone.
"It's a dream" you say in argument

"Thank you" he says and smiles
and from the water feature, the frog
belches wetly in the liquid black
and his hand has found yours

warm as your mother's scones
and embedded with all the dirt
of so many years loving work.
You feel carved by him now

by the certainty of his grasp
and the intensity of the stars
in his gaze, the way his eyes
don't let go, for even a moment.

"You go to bed, darling.
I'm sorry if I woke you.  My 
gift will be ready in the morning."
He waves his hand across your face -

a hypnotist among other crafts -
for you find yourself curled
a sickle of warmth in the doona
and your eyelashes crescents on your cheeks.

First magpie's gurgle trickles in, muted
by the window pane, but enough to
roll you out of bed, wrinkled as your
head's pillow and just as downy.

Out in the courtyard, the deft sun
prints intricate shadows of vine leaves,
jasmine tendrils and his gift
a beautiful table wrought from

old wheel rims and your mother's 
collapsed balcony - its Victorian splendour
ironically displayed in deliciously
seductive leg-work.   The frog chirrups

and a wren flits blue among the potted
geraniums and incandescent rays.
Your tears mark the stone work floor -
your gratitude and grief in morse.

You know he is gone now,  like your
mother's scones and the stupid balcony
and you wish it might be night again
so you could dream again

and walk with him up his ramp among the stars.