Once Upon

A summer’s day inside a dim nook

Hooks of sun cling to dusty light

A patter of feet, tentative and slight,

Whiskers tweak and ears prick

The smell of sweat and sunshine linger

Softly, upon the skin,

And in she is, this ball of jitters

Twitters pleasantly to the receptionist.

A sassy smile, a knowing nod

Cards and keys, paper and pins,

Exchanged and signed, too refined

Too cocky, this little whatsit

Struts and pouts, giggles with a smile

She bounces from room to room

Idle, but energised. She fumbles

Pushes and shoves, scrapes and knocks,

Opening Aladdin’s cave, glittering, glimmering.

A gem nestled in a stained chain

The nymph flaps and flutters, weaving silk

And spinning the dew drop wet web.

Freeze. It is time. Away, down the same lane

Out into the sun the bud bursts to bloom.

Into cobbled streets, stones laid out side by side

Like little tombs. Towards the smokey choke

Of people scattered like pins. Where is he?

There. Smaller then remembered, and from afar

Perhaps stocky and brutish, with eyes too close

Or a lips too thin. He is here. A cigarette dangling

Dangerously on a sulky mouth, but a flash lights

Those wide, wild eyes. She is here. Like two peas

Where one is slightly rounder, bigger, greener

Yet still two peas sheathed in a suitcase  

Rattling roguishly with too much space.

A smile, a nod, an embrace. Small questions

Drip off wet lips as they stroll with eternity

Between them. Like fruit bats seeking succulent

Sweetness do they return to the cave, hungry

For the flesh of tender peach, plum, grape.

Hairs tingle upon her nape as she senses his eyes, only his

Watching her, judging her, feeling her.

The clinging scent a red rose dies, but tender

Buds of the little forget-me-not struggle up

Not much, no fuss, resolute.

Tension builds a sly glance and quick smile.

Suddenly he’s there, too close, too soon.

His eyes too intense and too remote.

A serpent’s tongue hisses over her lips

Who knew such creatures of fire and hate

Could kiss with Angel’s wings?

Feather light, gentle and soft

A taste of ash and crisp leaves

Cool, cold, lusciously fresh.

They fit gawkily together, pieces of the same puzzle

But different parts of the picture.

They have so little time, and yet tomorrow

Could be as far as infinity, somewhere

Painfully pleasant and burning cold, somewhere

There is no sound and every sound, somewhere

Hills are flat and roots bloom with petals. Somewhere

The body is mankind, and every soul the mind.

A pen is dipped into the ink pot, drawing evening

And the feeling of a letter without words.

There is so much confusion, promises unwritten,

Between them there is nothing, and everything

Imperfections craft these moments of perfection.

Potions of pastel pink and the emerald case

Of bubbling liquid gold taste and intoxicate.

Then, like the lights of heaven

Seeping through pinpricks of a dark duvet

A wall cracks and crumbles, a silver cloud

Melts into a pool of watery fire.

No traces of desire, there is only the pure white

Of something more than before.

Quite the opposite of bad, but not quite good

Fears of what would, should, could commence.

She is blissful, he is bemused.

Unacquainted with an emotional bruise,

Where sentiment seeps under the skin

In puddles of purple and blue, goodbye,

Adieu are now poetry to melt the heart,

And used to make the soul or tear it apart.

Love, another word mispronounced

Is not the volcanic heat that rips your veins,

The mind games, or sweetened names,

The emotional monologues or twenty four

Missed calls. It does not hit you with a hammer

Or choke you with tears, fears and years

Of longing yet not belonging.

It is more the gentle breeze which follows

A hurricane, the aftershock of a rocking world.

The certainty that the sun will rise or that

Waves will never cease to lap your feet.

It is the soft poke towards fire when you freeze

Yet the hand that holds you back from burning.

It is the turning of time in a ticking clock, it goes on

When shattered, cracked and clogged.

It is not consuming but filling, not compulsory yet willing

It is the delicate ash left after a flame

The sap that swells when a bough is maimed

So King of lust, Virgin of love, here is one simple suggestion;

Is love the logical answer to your question?