Cool air sighs
under satin drape
where rivulets of soft undulations
raged an ocean of love
undercover in the dark;
moonlight’s soft sheen
skips on ripples, peaks and troughs
of fluttering folds on shined skin,
like laced pansies
spreading over the surface.
Quadrille ~ a 44 word verse.
Kneeling down on her soft bed, I follow my
hollow sounding, vapour trail of hot breath.
My hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of an ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
of winters. A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress, and too soon my heart aches
for the callous black ice to preserve the footprints
of yesteryear – sadly only imprinted forever in memory
– quickly they disappear in warmer times. Is it by tender
touch and passionate farewell or does the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shake off her shrill wrap and vanish once more.
Old sheet music’s tinge
seeps through perforated card
begging to be played