It was no big deal.
There were no cosmic repercussions.
The Sun didn’t suddenly flare when it happened,
And the local planets didn’t change their course.
The most casual and accidental of intimacies,
As her left hand came to rest on his left thigh,
Accompanied by a sleepy sigh.
He flinched with surprise, half awake;
Perhaps he even groaned, as if in complaint – unintended,
And apologised for immediately,
Although his “sorry” went unheard and unheeded
In the 2 a.m. darkness of the room.
By way of some tiny recompense, of amend making,
He placed his left hand on hers,
And squeezed o-so-gently for a minute or more.
A small act of love, in the dead-still, breath-still,
Early hours of a chilly Winter morning.
And yet, this simple act, so seemingly insignificant,
Contained within it all the love of a Tristan for his Iseult,
An Orpheus for his Eurydice, a Lancelot for his Guinevere.
And, like all acts of love, howsoever small,
It was an act of defiance, too,
Since it stood firm ‘gainst corrupt dissemblance,
Despotic tyranny, and corrosive tribalism.
Two hands as one,
Transfigured in an instant.
Dafydd ap pedr