Secret

The Amaranth symbolises immortality

Another wife has died to be remembered

at a funeral attended by few.

I was not present, it would not have been decent.

She was ninety-four.

Such a beautiful child she was,

when I observed her from afar.

I was grateful, a quarter century later, I was not recognised

when she became my wife.

So hard to abandon her after five-and-twenty years.

Her tears, I never saw, but I felt each one fall.

There have been so many through the centuries.

Hearts broken, uncounted except by me.

With each one I cleaved my own heart

promising this one would be the last.

Often it was — for a generation. 

But the curse of needing someone fermented

until resistance diminished.

To see a lover grow old and wither is hard.

To see your children and grandchildren

age and die is a sight impossible to bear.

Living for centuries knowing sweet death will

never come calling creates a madness

that cools to purest sanity.

I am a wraith, running, hiding.

Changing to avoid being prodded and burned

and in times so hard to disappear, ever inventive.

My miracle must remain undiscovered.