cycle through a Cornish town
like children of a distant
love-god presenting themselves
for a feast-day parade.
Even their hair is scented
with love and the aroma of it becomes
a vapour, feeding the boldness
of their pedalling - pheromone powered -
anchoring wheels, filling our lungs
with spoonfulls of their unconditional love.
Children and the aged flag them
down, ask: "What is love's secret ?"
and I too push my way into the crowd
eager to hear the answer, to rekindle
a belief, but we are left disappointed
because love waits for no man they say
and pedal towards the far-off hills
leaving only the residue of their
electric skins for us to examine
At dusk, high above the dockyard,
their lovemaking impresses itself
upon the earth like a bold seal,
her scattered kisses boarding
the great ships stripped naked
of the sea, to impregnate the oceans
with her devotions. Their love is
all-consuming: it filters through us,
plants seed until we ache, go numb,
and are led blind in the dead
of night into their house of dreams
where, once inside, we remove our coats
and recall the ghosts
of our own one true love.