Hot.
When, at last his boat harbours
sweet will spring anticipation.
Cargo of long unopen fruits for
dreamt pleasure I know await.
Bales that never grow stale will
soon be unloaded and tasted.
Payloads of waited-for nectar sit
corked though ready for rating.
I can imagine lips dripping wet
with fervour of feast unabated.
Hatches now closed contain his
willing gift to tease my favour.
Love does not prosper if faced
with spates of long privations.
I cannot wait to un-bottle sips
of his freight, hot for taking.
After a Sip.
Half-awake and stranded between the old
day and new,
coming tomorrows may look leviathan,
loom like clouds
of sharp-sharded, unreliable giants where
trust becomes sun-leathered
with nowhere to hide,
muscle-bound and most of the time
muddy-eyed.
But after a sip of memory\'s comfort I can
shake weighty foreboding and
see where faith
has been leading events,
toss off stifling clothes and walk more
upright into the future,
shoulders high.
Facing fate with anticipation I find myself
able to smile at being alive
and for having been gifted with love,
life\'s battles then lose a bit of their scary
sting as I dip grateful toes
into the moment.
True lovers have everything good going
for them I muse,
while I notice
the sky above is becoming blue.