The Reiver Lass

On By Meiling CheungIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

The moon rode low on Cheviot,
The frost was hard and white;
A lone black mare came down the brae,
And vanished into night.

Her coat was dark, her bonnet plain,
Her pistol hid below;
She rode as though the road were hers,
And all the hills should know.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

She crossed the burn at Carter Bar,
She climbed the northern track;
She counted forty cattle there,
Then turned the whole herd back.

She cut the gate with one clean stroke,
She never looked behind;
The cattle knew the Border road,
The mare knew where to find.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

A warder’s horn cried from the hill,
Three riders came in haste;
She heard them long before they saw
The woman whom they chased.

She halted once beside the wall,
And watched them climb the height;
Then smiled and drew her pistol out—
“Good men, you’ve come too late.”

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

The first man raised his sword at her,
The second cursed her name;
She turned her mare beneath the stroke
And laughed at both the same.

She struck the first across his wrist,
His sword fell in the snow;
She levelled once upon the next—
“Now, lad, which way will you go?”

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

He lowered down his useless sword,
His courage left him cold;
She tossed his blade beside his boots—
“Go home and tell what’s told.”

She drove the cattle through the ford,
The moon was sinking west;
No boast escaped her quiet lips,
Nor triumph from her breast.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

At dawn they found her trail was lost,
Her hoofprints filled with rain;
A red thread hung upon a thorn,
But she was gone again.

And far beyond the Border wall,
Where mist lay on the moor,
She laughed to hear the church bell ring
And knew they searched once more.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

They called her thief in Carlisle town,
They called her devil’s kin;
But those who met her on the road
Were careful not to grin.

For she was neither wild nor rash,
Nor cruel without a cause;
She chose her hour, she chose her ground,
And never broke her laws.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

No rope was ever laid for her,
No gaoler knew her face;
She left the Border years ago
And left no trace or place.

Yet when the moon is sharp and thin,
And frost lies on the stone,
A black mare’s hoof comes down the road—
Then every dog lies prone.

Ride, ride, my bonny mare,
Ride swift beneath the moon;
What daylight leaves behind it,
The dark shall gather soon.

潮聲入骨

On By Meiling CheungIn Poetry, SonnetLeave a comment

潮臥沙汀，冷浪貼我趾邊，
鹹風穿髮，濕意上眉梢；
細沙隨步，軟軟陷其間，
月色如霜，落滿我輕袍。

銀蟾低照，水光磨玉肌，
一線寒痕，沿腕緩緩流；
鹽珠微顫，凝在肌膚裏，
夜氣侵衣，卻把心燒透。

浪來，濡我踝；退，餘涼未盡，
濕沙留痕，轉眼又無蹤；
風拂肩頭，帶海藻幽韻，
遠磯碎月，近耳盡潮聲。

我立潮中，任衣襟染濕，
一呼一吸，與海同沉浮。

The tide lay hushed; cool water kissed my feet,
And salt-wind threaded slowly through my hair;
Soft sand gave way beneath each step I’d meet,
While silver gathered lightly on the air.

The moon poured down her pale and patient light,
And traced cool rivers slowly down my skin;
A bead of salt trembled, clear and bright,
While dampened cloth drew the night close in.

Each wave came cool around my waiting feet,
Then slipped away, leaving its chill behind;
Wet sand received each footprint, soft and sweet,
While seaweed breathed its green scent on the wind.

I stood where darkness mingled sea and shore,
And breathed until my pulse became the sea once more.

“

熟路

On By Meiling CheungIn Free verse, Poetry2 Comments

你嘅手未掂到我，
我身已經認得你。
唔係記憶——
係肩胛骨微微一動，
腰間嗰寸空位忽然有咗名字。

我哋太熟。
熟到你知道我邊度會避，
邊度唔會；
熟到一個呼吸嘅遲疑，
都足以令皮膚先一步回答。

你靠近，
我冇退。
只係兩個人之間
仍然留住一線風，
薄得幾乎冇重量，
卻叫渴望有地方生長。

有啲觸碰，
唔因陌生而顫；
正正因為知道——
知道指尖會落喺邊，
知道溫度會停留幾耐，
知道身體曾經點樣
把另一個身體記低。

所以多年之後，
你仍然可以只係望我一眼，
我就覺得自己
又未被你碰過。

而呢，
先至係最難戒嘅事：
身體從來冇忘記，
愛卻每一次
都仍然想重新開始。

Your hand has not reached me,
and already my body knows you.
Not memory—
but the small turning of the shoulder,
the sudden naming of that narrow space at my waist.

We are too familiar.
You know where I will yield,
where I will not;
you know the hesitation inside a breath
that makes the skin answer first.

You come nearer.
I do not retreat.
Only one thin measure of air
remains between us—
almost weightless,
yet enough room
for longing to grow.

Some touch trembles
not because it is unknown,
but because it is known too well:
where the fingers will rest,
how long warmth will remain,
how the body once learned
to keep another body by heart.

And after all these years,
you need only look at me
and I feel, somehow,
as though you have never touched me.

That is the difficult thing to lose:
the body has never forgotten,
while love, each time,
still wants to begin again.

Before the Mind Can Name It

On By Meiling CheungIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

我唔再數呼吸——
佢哋自己散開，
一縷一縷，
似黑暗忽然學識發光。

身體唔再係邊界，
而係一扇門，
開得咁慢，
連時間都忘記催我。

有一刻，
我只聽見血液行過自己；
冇名字，冇方向，
只有一股力量
從骨縫深處升起，
將沉默推到最高。

我冇捉住佢。
亦冇逃。

任佢經過我，
像潮水經過石頭——
唔帶走我，
只留下我終於知道
自己可以有幾深。

後來一切歸於靜。

窗外仍然係夜，
床單仍然係床單，
月光甚至冇問發生過乜嘢。

只有我知道：

那一刻，
身體曾經比語言
更加誠實。

I stopped counting breath.

It had become too large for numbers,
unthreading itself through me
until even the dark
seemed briefly illuminated from within.

The body ceased to be a boundary.
It became a threshold—
not crossed,
but opened,
slowly enough
for time to lose its manners.

Then came that strange instant
when blood itself seemed audible,
a private weather beneath the skin,
rising without permission,
without language,
without anything left to explain.

I did not seize it.
I did not resist.

I let the force pass through me
with the terrible ease
of water finding its level.

And afterwards—

nothing had changed.
The room remained the room.
The night kept its distance.
Moonlight, with impeccable discretion,
made no comment.

Yet something in me
had crossed no boundary
and discovered one:

that the body,
when wholly awake,
can tell the truth
before the mind has found
the courage to name it.

The Narrow Door

On By Meiling CheungIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

No candle knew what passed between us,
the room kept faith with its own dimness;
only the curtain, lifting once,
seemed to understand.

You came slowly—
not like a wave, but water
finding the patient shape of stone,
learning where the silence softened.

There are doors that open outward,
bright with hinges, asking nothing.
And there are others
that require the whole heart
to forget its hurry.

Your hand rested at my waist.
That was enough.

Beyond the ordinary geography of touch,
we crossed a country without names,
where every breath was a question
and every answer
was given by staying.

Outside, the rain wrote
its small, persistent script
against the glass.

Inside, two bodies learned
that tenderness has thresholds—
and that sometimes
the most intimate distance
is the one we dare
to let another cross.

香蘭

On By Meiling CheungIn Free verse, PoetryLeave a comment

夜深，窗外雨細，
一縷香蘭忽然來。
不是花開，
是妳行過我身旁——
衣袖輕輕，
仍帶住那年嘅暖。

我冇喊妳。
有啲思念，
唔肯驚動夜色；
只係坐低，
由得香氣慢慢行入心。

母親，
原來人走得好遠，
一種香，仲可以留低。
佢唔問我快唔快樂，
唔問我有冇長大——
只係靜靜提醒：
愛過，就唔會真正走失。

今晚，
我聞到妳。
冇一句再見，
冇一滴眼淚必要。
只得雨，
只得花，
同我仍然記得妳。

Tonight the rain is fine against the glass,
and ylang‑ylang comes quietly through the room.
Not the flower—
but the trace of you passing near me,
your sleeve brushing the air,
carrying warmth from some unhurried year.

I do not call for you.

Some kinds of missing
have learned not to disturb the night.
They simply sit beside me
and breathe.

Mother,
you have gone farther than any road could measure,
yet one fragrance can cross the distance
without asking permission.

It does not ask whether I am happy,
or whether I finally learned
how to be grown.

It only says, very softly:

what was loved
is not lost merely because
the hand can no longer reach it.

Tonight,
I smell you.

No farewell needs improving.
No tears need proving.

Only rain.
Only flowers.

And this strange, stubborn grace—
that after all these years,
I still know you
by the way the air remembers.