Monday, 25 April 2011



In those first breaths
You are unsymmetrical:
Loose sprinkles of
Mascara dust,
The constellation on
Your neck, and
One eye still asleep.


You are face down;
Back silent and bare:
A tousled halo fanned,
Cascading like wind-scorched
Mountain grass; head to the right,
Resting on the smooths of your wrists;
Elbows splayed like a Golden Eagle over Lochnagar.


Over the little corner sink,
Loose strands of hair lopping
Close to the swirl;
Smooth and exposed –
Your back the Sahara,
And sand dunes the vertebrae
Of wind-chiselled nights.


Out of the rock pool,
Drenched, you uncoil,
And surging to waterfalls
A tributary swells
From your eyes to your lips,
And with sensual taunts
That linger so brief
It hangs on your mouth,
Then flirts with your chin
And licks round your neck,
But slows – like the tip of the tide –
And dwells like a tongue
On your softening peak…
And you dab yourself damp.


A routine, before me
Devoutly glistening;
Shimmering brush strokes
Dripping alive,
And I, tremulous as
Searing glass.

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