With No Hint of An End
These words may have no beginning,
but they bounce
and echo loud, around the labyrinths
of the self-same shell
they were first each imprisoned in ..
Fine words they are too
and when whispered soft, might be
mistaken for the sea,
or the wind, as it mouths and teases
her wild golden,
finger-combed hair, brushed back,
slightly damp and still salty ..
My lady once lived for such poetry
yet she would lay there
still and barely breathing just in case
the spell somehow, got broken ..
Then upon waking, she would look up
and see the world
through a perfect Ken Simm painting ..
Yes, twas then, she felt a kiss,
south of the nape her neck did crave
and he, also thirsted for ..
Ache gentle he begged, against these
delicious downward thrusts
and be light as green lacewings wings
lost on clouds passing us by ..
And like that, they remain to this day,
safe in the cove of
their own little harbour, where words
such as these, tend to go
around and around, with not one hint
of a beginning, no signs of a
middle, nor trace of an imminent end even ..