This run of days so ordinary
you wonder if the extraordinary
really happened.
What is this past
that so disturbs
your memory’s ride?
Back a fortnight,
you are still working out
the whole chain of it.
Sunday, and awake with the dawn,
cold April, late daffs.
Birds forsaking their chorus,
keep their heads down.
Not a twitter.
Lying awake,
she, in the final throes of sleep,
having practised breathing all night,
is playing dead lions.
Nothing stirs. Surely,
this is unfair such slumbering,
when you are so passion-poised.
Stretch your hand under the pillow
where you know her hand lies.
Place your hand so close so
close but not to touch – yet.
You are aroused with thoughts
of encounters (past rare wonderous
enveloping moments) when ******* press,
feet stroke calves, and fingers touch
where fingers should only touch in bed
(though you remember when,
elsewhere, such touching touched
and passion palpated shook the air).
She wakes and checks the clock.
How long have I to wake
before we join in love's brief grasp?
Oh to be still, oh be still my love,
so I can drift and sort my thoughts?
Now she opens her arms to you,
and her own sweet self drops away
into a real and present pleasure.
