Poem and Roses

I sat at your feet, reading a poem to you,
an ancient poem, full of loss and longing,
faraway tales of a long gone distant people,
their timeless dreaming, their high romance.
I lean my head on your knee, hoping
to hear words of wisdom and knowledge,
there is a silence, your eyes are closed,
you are sleeping, you have not heard me.

I go through the door to the dusk washed garden,
I start picking the end of the summer roses,
the Bourbons, the Gallicas, the Rosa Mundi,
I’m drunk on scents, the flailing wafts of fragrance
assaulting my senses, invading my heart.
A sudden rain drenches the humid air,
the eucalyptus sways, honeysuckle drops petals,
the paths are washed and seeping, overflowing,
the flowers weep, drooping with weight of water.

Blue lightning streaks, electrifys the sky,
thunder crashes, cracking across the night,
I laugh, fling off my robe, running, dancing
then you are here, awoken by the storm,
running through the trees, stripping your clothes,
our hands and mouths held open, catching
the streaming rain, the storm receding.
Together, we pick the moist and limpid roses,
together, we fall naked on the soaked and springing grass.


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