With No Hint of An End

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 ..