FIRST LOVE, LATER LOVE

FIRST LOVE, LATER LOVE

First love is undoubtedly special,
though love affairs later in life
lack neither the passion …
Nor the sheer fun.

GATES OF GRASS

Through gates of grass
frail daybreak glides:
the gate's edge laced by prismic beads of dew
reflects the palest gold and turquoise sky
and gilds her sleep-swept hair.
Our sea-scented lovers' bed of ferns
Groans softly as she stirs.

In my arms, gently held,
smelling of new-baked bread,
Myfanwy lies

Enclosed.

Through gates of grass
the noon sun strides:
wipes with warm hands our pool-pearled thighs
and sifts the tangled webs of knotted hair;
paints the leafy awning neon bright
and stiffens the stems of our ferny screen
on plays of passion sweet performed.

In my arms, soft and still,
with musk-rich scent of after love,
Myfanwy lies

Entwined.

Through gates of grass
twilight trails the dusk:
to douse the fiery skies of sunset
fading fast to indigo and profound purple.
Shadows drift by like darkling snow,
leach the fulsome forest greens
and silhouette the brittle bracken stands.

In my mind's arms, ethereal,
with poignant perfume memory-made,
Myfanwy lies

Elsewhere

GRAND MISTRESS

The damage so far:
Four pawns dismissed, bishopricide,
And one errant knight unceremoniously unhorsed
Oh yes, and each between-moves comment
Systematically, coldly dismantled, torn apart.

Check.List.

As proof of God [he, she, it or they]
I cite immense varieties of greens of grass
You counter 'tis but biochemical happenstance
Chlorophyll's green, the rest mere impurities
As to my plea for autumn leaves
Their multifarious shades [to you] just toxins
Hitching a helter-skelter ride.
And petals? And scents?
Honey traps for pollinating bugs
and sentimental soft-hearts. Thanks.
Petal patterns, you say,
follow mathematical imperatives: molecules
attract and aggregate in smallest space.
A challenge:
show me a pattern to break the rules
show me a proof of God.

Check.Out.

I suspect you've guessed by now
[Maybe by the way my hand lingers a little too long
And a little too low on the hip
To guide her along the meandering
half slick, half steaming garden path
and avoid the sickening crunch of crushed snail]
That Jayne and I
Are something more than casual friends
And players of chess. You're right.
We're sometime lovers – three weeks
In maybe just as many years …
Not concurrent, you understand, but piecemeal
An hour here and there and once, just once,
A wild and windfall weekend.
No permanence
For sake of family, friendship
and [be honest, now] sheer funk.

Check. Over.

We're here, at the very ecological edge
of the wilderness garden.
With a little nod you concur with my request
to tread with care. The little lemon-yellow toadstools
which punctuate the turf are yet unnamed.
I direct your hand beyond my assembly of wild grasses
behind the stately clump of sedge.
I invite you to investigate the tiny patch of flowers
Fritillaria meleagris, Snake’s Head Fritillary,
half hidden in the shade.
You crouch and peer. "Christ!" you snort,
"Michael C, you wily Welsh git …
these bloody plants …
They've got a f***ing chess-board printed on!"
The f-word!? Jayne? Can't be …
She drops to her knees, looks right and left
then fore and aft. Not overlooked.
Her lips twitch, eyes a-gleam,
knees encrusted with mashed toadstools
still unnamed [and won't be now]

"OK, cherub," [forgiven, then]
"You've shown me proof of God
and now my love …."

Zzzzzip

"… I'll supply
some proof of heaven."

Check. Mate.