By Pippa Gray
He's the soul for which I wait.
I'll feed him darkest sabre grapes
and lead him to a bed of moss,
with velvet spread and moonstained cloths.
His sweet and salty skin I'll bathe
in goats milk and black forest oats.
His will shall loose with every sip
of rose leaf tea with calamus.
Not king, nor prince, or knight or knave,
I chant his name just all the same.
And long I’ve gazed and fed the flames
and twisted grasses to his shape. Oh,
I could reel him in like cheated fish,
hooked on twisted lines of fibs
and dragged to heel to suffocate,
a'feared to meet his father’s fate.
But that’s for others, darker still,
who wield their wallets, pockets filled
with hypnotising sparkly bait and
wicked lures of titles gained.
No, I need only breathe and sing
into sad willows round his home,
a perfumed mist of liquorice,
the musk of me, and cinnamon.
Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment