Tone

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With every sound
and each word uttered
there is pause,

a silence,
as if waiting for the touch
of a lover – distant still,
but out there.

Until such time,
words float as poetry
until caught and lightly wrought
on cool staves,

and as they stir,
no tone is forced, harsh
and breathy –

they wait and would wait
forever –
as every song, like love,
is incomplete
until it hears its own echo.

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Hark!

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Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar

my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn

closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.

Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.

Beloved

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Sauntering at the foot of the hillside
like the Parthenon’s last defence,
guarded by the equinox, but soon he will relent.
I see you there ambushed by thought
in sweet, contemplative stance
with your confounded theories flowing
as your wild locks and robes
once flowed over me when we danced.
Place me, an equation, among those others you crave;
I bare the belly of a wild, wild slave,
who appeals to a heart that smoulders each night
beneath tired laurels on resting brow in taught moonlight.
I send love to ponder for me my soul’s
intentions, its aching form moved not by
philosophical invention, but by sweet sandals
to feet that gives stillness time,
yet you stand aloof in your thoughts,
drinking mortals’ wine.
Drink only to me and to those surly gods,
think of me among textured shard
of breakthroughs and euphoria, composure
and glimmers mid passing, take a sip of my wine
sated from grapes of love, everlasting.
I am a weaver, unbeknownst to you – a mere muse
here at your hem working my fervour –
it is, I, the wicked one.
Callous infamy lives in my moral’s den.
I was cast out for embracing a mortal’s sin
that forever wanders in the footsteps
now kneeling before me; only you can
overshadow their accursed witchery, and I will fear not
for when you look down to see reflected in my eyes
the shine that is you, my beloved,
my Erasmus – from then on, you will only ever
be thinking of me.