Could I ever find the words; to tell
you how you shape my life each day; of the
moods you assume; each morning’s
slant a different view unlike before; just as
its been its changed again; Hues of
blue, azure sheets and sparkling shafts; stolen silver
arrows of love’s delight; then cobalt
black unyielding deadly in embrace; then softer
tempting, a body undressing; in loam
and grey; then flimsy
teardrops falling from angels on their slow swoop home; then breathless
kisses as wind for sailing; on rippled
sapphire crests of foam; their rolling
lilting swells all breasts and smiles; while your finely
fashioned fingers kindly lap the waiting
longing lounging supine shore?
2.
Could I ever take your hand; and walk
along the sheltered snaking trails of single file; their battered
bushes braded by coarse brown fishing ropes; long unused
their fibres fading underfoot; though memories
of their use by calloused yellow hands a vivid picture in my mind; those bitter
biting boatfuls in morning mist; before I
found you and the sun could brace the day; and fill
my heart with joy for the catches I have made; as we
weave along the shivering way; lovers seeking
sanctuary in sandduned arms; while afar
the scraggy seagulls screaming us to go; this way or that
as we wander along our dreaming, seeking, loving way?
3.
Could I ever watch with you; fire-warmed at
dusk while the evening star arrives; opening wide
its festooned festival of sparkling light; like you
a galaxy only I have found; and see
you drink the Southern Cross; its pointers
touch your heart and see the darkened shadows; flee like
bats against the moon whose face; unwrapped by
joy beams upon us as we ride; the milky waters
of our epic flight to far-flung fissures where; as distant sailors
of the night in winds that bite and coil; our love
like planets implodes in showering bright-night sky; and we
the seraphs we’ve become mouth our mystic love-oaths; like travellers
of the stars oft do?
4.
Could I ever find the words, take your hand, watch with you; as I begin
to stir towards that Watersedge; my dimming
sight all tied and tired with mildewed mist; my body
drawn by calling tides; my thoughts
like shoals of slippery knaves submerging sinking; below the
the places beyond our depth; my memories
like eels who make their slidy stealthful getaways; beyond the
spit where stronger currents wash them free into another sea; and though
my heart recalls elated sultry days and the never-ending nights; we sought
to hold the moon and how we stumbled; new-shorn soldiers
phalanxed across the dunes; and even as
the colours and sacred waters have washed us through and made us one; will not
the tide arrive that one last time; and I’ll be alone again?
Chris Ahrends – August 2012
**************************************
Like this:
Like Loading...