Interlude
Laying on the sunbed...
listening to Veedon Fleece by Van the man.
So nice to hear him jazz and lilt,
before he turned old and bitter.
Holding hands with my lover as
butterflies flirt against white clouds.
Blue white red brown splashes,
flit dancing to an old song.
Fingers entwine, tap to the ever music,
are met by a quick strong squeeze.
Thoughts slow.. absorbed by nothing,
other than a view from delighted eyes,
both in tune and out of time.
The sweat makes its own sweet way,
in a tickle run from brow to eyebrow.
I close my eyes and poetry
weaves words against my lids.
And I think they will stay there..
forever.. never passing beyond..
for to move for pen would be
their stillborn death.
I listen.. and watch them form.
There is a completeness to words
that are born knowing death.
That shine bright in full view
of their own departure..
free of restraint to be anything,
but themselves.
The album ends,
and the first few drops fall on cue.
A curtain call riding gentle gusts,
that buffet a hornet as it worries
the tassels hanging from the umbrella.
The swiftlets dive and dart
among dragonflies swarming.
A silent cadence... another phase.
Neither move as the symphony continues..
enfolded, enraptured, embraced.
I feel her smile and, turning my head,
open my eyes..blue eyes meet brown.
Bidden, my lips form their own answer,
and hand in hand we run for home,
childlike once more..
eager to shed our wet clothes.
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