Tempest
Dark, tranquil night grew fidgety
With fits of whooshing wind
And sleep, serene, it ebbed away
With pelting, driven rain
While wife of mine, she clutched my hand
‘Neath bedclothes warm and soft—
All through the storm we cuddled tight
As branches bobbed, they thrashed;
Pale dawn, at last, all gray and wet
Brought Eros on a call:
He saw our love, his grin he flashed,
A tempest then stirred up.
Copyright © David Bose | Year Posted 2017
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