Wind
plays matchmaker,
gently
nudges our hips;
whispers
in our hair,
fades
herringbone horizon
to
wool flannel sky.
Hold
fast on the lee side,
like
the last wet leaves of a Brontë
tree.
You
say you are a god
knighted
by Vikings,
impassable
as Hadrian's Wall.
Cleavage
lines spill your body
to
mine, matching faults.
Length
and breadth combine;
congruity
that beckons me
to
worship.
tk/September 2013
Thank you, R.A.D. Stainforth, for another excellent read.
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