A Precious Thing
How beautiful the flower that yields without duress, its beauty held ageless in winter’s breath as powdery snow gloves the fingers. A…
How beautiful the flower
that yields without duress,
its beauty held ageless in winter’s breath
as powdery snow gloves the fingers.
A meeting point between pristine
innocence and the veiled promise of ecstasy.
The expectation of a moonlit bloom,
and the clandestine touch of soft crystal light.
Shall we walk forgotten paths
beside a dark becalmed sea
where I can taste the saltiness in the air,
and pluck the marram grass
with a gentle loving hand.
The wind will whisper a pardon
when love goes passing by.