-The Dawn Comes-

-The Dawn Comes-

The dawn has come
and autumns ruddy fingers have drawn the curtain wide,
slipped beneath the sheets, to melt with you inside.

This glow, that sheds it's gentle ray across my pillow
comes without trumpet or lyre,
no fanfare to betray the tenderness or desire.

Incomparable, indefensible love!

No Force nor fissure in the dark of that night,
could ever overwhelm this bright dawns first light.
As a fire comes from out the coals below,
like a bursting river, that sweeps across the meadow.

In silence it has crept,
and swept between the winking stars,
that shone so patiently upon this sleeping frame,
as if in hidden silence, they whispered out your name,
and spoke of joys in days to come,
the only herald in that night,
before the light, and love of this opulent sun.
 
I tried so hard to forestall it's power,
the awesome and terrible might.
yet sweet, in surrender, fear is overcome,
I ran with fright, and knelt with none.

Dawn has come, 
and spread her fiery wings beneath my window,
your face, gently kissed upon the pillow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013

Soft Invasion

-Soft invasion-

Thin wisps of gossamer hair
threaded through the night
Awake within a dream
this trembling soper of delight.

Dark threads slip between my fingers
and all i can feel are your lips
the warm crush of your breath
my heart racing
as if awoken from some sullen death.

You rise in tides
seething upon this shore
a yielding ground, drawn into the depths
a beckoning to get wet,
to soak myself within your warm surrounds.

The tremulous terror of love
kindles within my loins
a soft invasion, we two,
enjoined.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013




Photograph: Artist Unknown

A Late Harvest

-A Late Harvest-

September
the last splay of the bellflowers are in the open field.
The bees, marking time, flitting between each blossom,
long ago made new;
Perhaps more in hope than expectation.
A half blown dandelion rests frazzled against the wild-grass.
It is as if at long last rest has come,
baked beneath the sweltering sun of yesterday.
The grass seeds have blown,
and all that is left are the thin willow husks
rocking stiffly in the wind.
They too have had their day,
and still the bees endless industry,
a golden light for the long night to come.
I saw your face again today,
transposed upon a golden field of yore
- and still the bees, gently flit from bloom to bloom,
A late harvest, the bounty and the gift,
of winters cold store.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013