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Feb 2021
When I: with small words: bent to whisper
Some of her hairs (bronze and electric)
Touched my cheek.
Adrenalin sang: synapses burst into flower
All awareness flared
Just as she turned her eyes to me

Seen from above: they were a deep green well
Where secrets swam,
The green core at the heart of sunset’s backlit breaking wave
Sunlight through summer’s stain glass forest leaves
Greenstone on the beds of mountain streams
Wide pale emeralds set in the strong and lovely bones of face
Whirlpools in which to willingly spin
Mythic green flash of sun drowning in horizon’s sea

Then, leaning,
Still closer to her hair (because I loved the voltage there)
I gave my words
But closeness was a shock that rocked: then paralysed
A near eternal minute: unfolding time was frozen there.
There was a thing like scent: no musks, no florals nor turpines
But it held me tranced
Cocooned by it I swayed upon my feet
Intoxicant beneath the sun
Enveloped in a perfect moment


Then: stunned: I had to walk away
In to the everyday
"passion is akin to intoxication and madness, out of both come creativity
Written by
Tim Deere-Jones
246
 
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