Touch
Childhood has me
with a fevered brow
being gently stroked
and bathed in the cool
of a caring breath
as I lay sick -
recalling, when I was
only six years old,
the electric thrill
that surged through me
when brushed by the shoulder
of Patricia Clark
in a classroom
at primary school
and fell in love -
and feeling
the tense tremble
beneath the feathery soft
body of a pigeon
I cradled in my hands
as it slowly let go,
closed its eyes
and died.
In the prison of its isolation
the soul craves the gift
of touch.
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