Madelaine's Chalice

On that summer’s day when we first meet and kissed, I knew you Madelaine as one I could adore. Against your family’s wishes, I still persisted in wooing you; we’d wed or I’d be your paramour. The levant winds blew through Spain’s hills unfettered bringing death to suitors far and wide from above. We had cause to feel our choice had made us debtors, leaving our love a littered path, a ball-fisted glove. Like Romeo I’d leave, not die, but without a trace for I’d not hurt you more and death would be too much. I’d give you time to heal your sorrows to embrace, to come to terms with the rightness of our chaste touch. In a far off land, I recall your devotion; your lamented father’s wish for a princely dower, but all have died who wished our love to be undone. Soon, I’ll claim my Lady from her empty tower. Fate gifted us passion, drinking from its chalice. We waded through flaming waves of rising ardor, in your summer home, your primrose covered palace. The memories of your touch make absence harder. As I looked across the wind-blown spray of ocean, my mind turned to the sadness of our parting hours Kneeling, I begged for a distance closing potion so I could reclaim you to our rosy bower. I see your longing, desperate, lovely, face endowed in fears dire depth as we parted from the clutch. I reminded you distance could not erase love’s trace or lesson my need to feel your soft, gentle touch. Last week, I sent a love-soaked, tear-stained letter; now I return aboard a ship to my sweet dove. I hope my missive sent has made you feel better, nevermore will I be denied the touch of my love. By Robert Lindley and Deborah Guzzi