Pressed for a poem
he thought he’d write
to say he loved her
and quite right too
he thought that
love should be
a statement thick
with words so tender
true yet gentle
as that soft complaining
flute he heard
in Dryden’s slick
immortal ode that
‘in dying notes
discovers woes
of hopeless lovers
whose dirge is whispered
by their warbling lute’
Oh yes come you and I
let’s like music
untune the sky!

But my dearest this day is not
the feast of Sancta Cecelia
but of a Roman priest and martyr
beheaded by the Flaminian Gate
for marrying Christians in the street.
And when imprisoned by Claudius’ decree
healed the sight of his jailer’s daughter
Lucy – by leaving her at his death a letter
‘I hope your sight gets better in time’
and signed it  ‘from your Valentine ‘
(with two kisses one for each eye)
.   .  . and it did

Such love can
make us see anew
can help us be
forever true and
gracious to each other’s
cares each other’s woes
and live in hope
(let’s really try)
to be together
always
you and I

I dream in
The colours of the palette you have gifted
my eyes see

New colours
Not-like-red and not-like-blue

Like the new love
not of the seven kinds
ever more than Eros and

Familial,
cerebral,
Celestial fantastical

Breathe, breathe, breathe
in gasps and
small
bewildered
shudders.

Coming

To see that
You have set me
Free.

Between us lies
An empty space.

How could we know
How great the gulf would grow?

I carried the strain.
You would not share my burden,

Now find me
An unwilling host.

I have found a rare mutation
Spliced, we are perfection.

Uninfected, we evolve.

My body bewildered and depleted,
Fragile as the needy me that fed it
Nothing and everything,
Ravaged through the raw, wet decades
Of abuse, and despair.

Bile-tainted, anger-stained
I gazed up, up, and into myself.
Those were the eyes of a determined dreamer,
The heart of a lioness,
Slowly curving mouth prepared to roar.

I am a woman who has learned
I am not this belly, I am not this body,
It is mine, and theirs, and yours.
I gaze upon it, gladly now,
Finding something
Finally worthy of love.

I am fragile
as the pulse that beats
Visibly
here at my wrist.
I am strong
as this resolute
Proud
steady fist.

We don’t need swaying palm trees and cicadas,
Not to feel as if we have stepped into paradise,
Cradled in the still, warm shadow of devotion,
We are soothingly bathed in love’s sweet heat.

Emotion surges within, rising, an upwelling,
Breaking with the speed of a tropical storm,
We are saturated with loving, wholly drenched,
The feeling; as water offered to a parched soul.

With burning words we urge our worlds to merge,
Unexpected blending during the summer of our lives,
Forging an alloy of free-flowing emotion, so powerful,
So intense, we are captured by its undeniable allure.

We don’t ever need to speak of our love aloud: no,
Finding our affirmation in the sighs between lines,
The liquid longing whispered into stories that we build,
Mirroring our deep desires, hopes and needs fulfilled.

From heady dreams, creating our own sweet heat,
Exploring unconditional passion, trembling, complete,
On cold, starry nights, embracing, sated, warm, alive,
Our coalescing, enraptured spirits, breathlessly writhe.

Across the challenging separation of distant night,
Languishing on the cusp of sleep, edging dreams,
Images rise, silken gossamer threads of thought,
Brushing against latent desires, calling, calling.

Irresistibly drawn together, ah, sharing the dream,
Thrumming pulses racing as we gently caress,
Languorous kisses, hot, sweet and hungry, we love,
Sleep entwined in moonlight, streaming from above.