Saturday, 29 March 2014



The opalescence of your eyes,
shimmers in Novembers pale sun,
and all the world is stolen,
still, in the glint of this silver thread,
woven between us.

The tethered serenade of a nightingale,
swims through the midnight branches,
an overhang of tenderness,
a canopy of moonlight,
dancing amongst the shadows,
the dipping lip,
creased in languid motions,
the teasing oceans of your warm breath,
swept upon the somnolence of this summers breeze.

How solemn the death.
The madness and insanity,
the shattered revelry,
broken in the crepuscular awakening
of this suns shrill call.

How fateful the fall of that larks sweet note,
the swollen throat of the broaching dawn.

And still... I love you still,
though all the sea's lay between us,
and time jealously guard our secret.

I close my eyes, and in that instant,
your summer moon invades the winter snows,
and all the frozen world about,
cannot keep me out of paradise.
The warmth of your touch,
an oasis of moonlight,
stark, against the harsh sun of reality.

And still... I love you still,
and being still, you are with me.

© Richard Michael Parker 2014