Storms live in the attic
They roll round on the wide brass bed and
Tussle beneath the eaves where
Wintry starlings sing in arabesque falsettos
and the quilts are all sewn by hand
Lily is mistress of this place
She bathes in thunder while the bluebells ring
Her lover watches, dumbstruck
all he knows is the air shimmers around her
And the sky vibrates in her eyes
Lily loves her lover only
Spurning pretenders and naysaying Minotaurs
Trusting his carnation smile, she
Wears tomorrow’s clothes, defiantly penniless
Wallowing in Omelettes and pillows
Lily paints her lips with rainbows
While her lover stretches out his canvas homage
falling deeper in love, felled
By the curve of her breast in the moonlight
And the way her hips roll as she walks
And if he’s her Halfpenny Prince
She’s his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Kestrels fly round the parlour,
Ravenous, but
They dine on eclairs in the boudoir
And never go hungry
Rain fills their silver violins
Music flows from his fingertips to her spine
Shambolic evening invocations
Paint the walls as they revel in their adagios
Soaring past counterfeit barriers
Lily never overthinks her loving
Mystics and gypsies roam free in her veins
Her blood becomes his, intrinsically
Intertwined in their colourful progression
Sad yesterdays die Long Ago
Everything changes at midnight
Lily courts her twixt times metamorphoses
Slinky rhythms catch her feet
Waterfalls pour from her arms as she dances
Her lover captures her with a last breath
Glazes her flesh with his lips
In the eaves dervish doves swirl in arcs of fright
In the garden of night tendrils unfurl
Their Fate touches the stone Angels Of Sorrow
From pitted mouths of pity they sigh
Lily is mistress of this place
She wakes alone in her wide brass bed, while
Crying birds sing to her in sympathy
And Summer weeps for her morning disillusion...
her threadbare reveries fall away
He is gone, he is gone, he is gone
He was her Halfpenny Prince
She his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Lily’s heart flies round the parlour,
Mourning,
Now she eats the bread of Memories
Lily never goes hungry
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 5:29 AM UTC
Storms live in the attic
They roll round on the wide brass bed and
Tussle beneath the eaves where
Wintry starlings sing in arabesque falsettos
and the quilts are all sewn by hand
Lily is mistress of this place
She bathes in thunder while the bluebells ring
Her lover watches, dumbstruck
all he knows is the air shimmers around her
And the sky vibrates in her eyes
Lily loves her lover only
Spurning pretenders and naysaying Minotaurs
Trusting his carnation smile, she
Wears tomorrow’s clothes, defiantly penniless
Wallowing in Omelettes and pillows
Lily paints her lips with rainbows
While her lover stretches out his canvas homage
falling deeper in love, felled
By the curve of her breast in the moonlight
And the way her hips roll as she walks
And if he’s her Halfpenny Prince
She’s his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Kestrels fly round the parlour,
Ravenous, but
They dine on eclairs in the boudoir
And never go hungry
Rain fills their silver violins
Music flows from his fingertips to her spine
Shambolic evening invocations
Paint the walls as they revel in their adagios
Soaring past counterfeit barriers
Lily never overthinks her loving
Mystics and gypsies roam free in her veins
Her blood becomes his, intrinsically
Intertwined in their colourful progression
Sad yesterdays die Long Ago
Everything changes at midnight
Lily courts her twixt times metamorphoses
Slinky rhythms catch her feet
Waterfalls pour from her arms as she dances
Her lover captures her with a last breath
Glazes her flesh with his lips
In the eaves dervish doves swirl in arcs of fright
In the garden of night tendrils unfurl
Their Fate touches the stone Angels Of Sorrow
From pitted mouths of pity they sigh
Lily is mistress of this place
She wakes alone in her wide brass bed, while
Crying birds sing to her in sympathy
And Summer weeps for her morning disillusion...
her threadbare reveries fall away
He is gone, he is gone, he is gone
He was her Halfpenny Prince
She his Sixpence no richer Princess...
Lily’s heart flies round the parlour,
Mourning,
Now she eats the bread of Memories
Lily never goes hungry
Request permission to use this poem