Saturday, 3 September 2011


Your love is like a secret field.
I’m wont to sit alone and ponder,
the pond is lily-crusted, leads to wonder –
my heart grows fonder.
I sit beneath your willow,
hark the many minnows,
give wing to bright sparrow.
I’m left wanting winnow.
I look inside your chest,
a green and pleasant crest,
open as the sea,
it opens inwardly,
then leads to great expanse,
infinite expanse,
where cheap’s the word romance:
love grows unhindered there,
unwatched, unwashed,
except with rain,
sacred cows idly champ
the lush grass of your hair,
a palliative for pain.

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