My Dearest Dove
If I could Harken to thee, a sonnet,
of loves most great desires,
the mere utterance, would warm thine ears
as the soft crackles of lusts fires
The ambiance, of shadows dance
across the Scottish tapestry,
Muses, light footed, pirouetting
my symphony, my love for thee
Fairest is thy silken mane
of the finest Irish Auburn,
brilliant as a cool autumn day
as the leaves of the maple turn
The tower bells, they toll for thee
as pale moon, illuminates the night
hark, the far cry, my dearest dove
of the owlet, so yearning flight
The petals of the Royal Rose
silken soft, compared to thy blushing skin,
or the Emerald glow, of thine own eyes
alit, passion, kindled from within
Mine own heart, burns with ever fire
that, which only thee, can conquer,
Conquer thee not, my dearest dove
for our love, forever, must endure
Harken to me my dearest Dove
sweet sonnets, from silken lips,
for I know thou shall be to me
as close as my finger tips.
Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2010
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