We are tired after a hot day; its separate frustrations,
expectations and disappointments they weigh down on us
Separately, separately.
We come to bed, we do not hold each other, even briefly.
We do not read, the heat says no, best not.
We sleep: despite the endless turmoil of traffic
Endless, endless
On the Finchley Road.
At 4.0am I wake.
There is this spell of quiet to allow those mid-summer birds
Their due chorusing for an hour.
I lie still, so conscious, so conscious
Of the exquisite fall of your right breast on the cotton sheet,
The rich curve of your upper leg and bottom,
Of the almost-pout of your dear lips
As you burrow into the pillow.
I can’t begin to imagine what you dream:
As for me if dreams have been, they have vanished
With the sight of your naked self I so adore, I so adore.
And lest my desire gets the better of me.
my hand reaches out to stroke that layer of air
Floating above your quiet form.
I fan this passion’s fire until it
Slowly dies, slowly dies.