He heard it clearly then,
nighttime had fallen……
waking the silent bats
the wise and wily owls,
her whispers rose
and came to rest
within the crowning canopy
from where it sought new life.
It was the fog, cousin of morning dew
that carried over land
and lonely dale to him….
her words, unspoken
and so clearly formed
by lips that many men would kill
or maim, just to be near,
to catch a fleeting brush
perhaps a drop of ptyalin
which tastes of pheromones
and trims a lusty loin.
I do remember well,
times reeked of innocence….
constraints imposed at will
and carried through the years
like an essential pill.
There would have been much more,
yet for the mind of youth
it was a victory of sorts,
that thoughtful kiss.
Oh what a pair, they said,
a true Poseidon’s match,
though there were other gods,
their voices loud, and shrill
preaching platonic verse,
time-honoured rules
for citizens and fools.
He listened to her heart,
the cloth was pushed away…
though nothing could persuade
the snapping of the clasp
and, let alone, a single seam.
He loved to see her sweat,
those lovely rivulets
and wished himself to store
all images of flesh
for barren days, alas
they would, as anyone would know
fade with the hands of time,
mixed by the busy mind
into the web of fantasy,
a potpourri remained within,
the brightness gone
and vivid colours flown
like small, impatient bats,
or frigate birds above the sails,
pretending talent in the world of sound,
their songs of dissonance borne high
into the sad and ah so silly winds of change.
Yes, he can hear,
his eager whispers are despatched
like homing birds,
pigeons from distant lands,
that land with feathered feet
upon your window sill,
from where they call,
in pleasing, urgent tones
and tell a tale to you,
you, who are drifting in between
reality and fickle promises
of Sandman and his dreams.
He kneels before the satin sheets,
orbicularis wants each single toe,
while digits wander, light of touch
up tibial skin, to pause
and hurry on to the more mighty
of the femorals,
a whisp of feathered down…..
she would not use the blade
above menisci, it was thought
that growth would amplify
and now his hands have paused,
awaiting eyes and well-flushed cheeks
la lingua tremola and lips
that think of needful deeds,
like Moses he now parts the flesh,
revealing novel rivulets
in still exotic preciousness.
She does not speak yet he can hear,
and with a sigh that grew to its maturity
over the graying years
he tastes………..
and then he knows
it is the nectar of the gods.
The river flows
now that the echo came,
a hooded boomerang
which does remind of
petals in the floral skies,
she wakes, halfway,
the trance will calm the heart,
and reaches to the south,
it is the pole that beckons now,
welcome my lonesome friend,
I did not have the opportunity
to meet you skin to skin,
back then,
but I have heard and do believe
in the big grin of full-grown men.
It is the sharing of their precious gifts,
the drought is gone as is the hurt of time,
soon he will start again,
down at the smallest handsome toe
and love and wonderment,
the essence for all humankind
will trickle sacred things,
while rivers flow.
