Storm

A blackberry sky lifts to blueberry blue,
and between her breasts – sweat glistens.
She and I, soporifically sated with the other,
we choose our separate paths, in the labyrinth
of dreams, where peignoirs of sun-streaked mist
drift, in this cornflower afternoon.

Trees jostle to crowd into a shade for her;
her very presence, like forgiving rain after a drought,
has transformed this barren land with blood-red poppies,
and with her lips – graciously gifted the simple sparrow,
therein, the spring-song of a linnet; sounds
like flowers – blooming,

Through it all, she sleeps; her breath falls, soft,
upon my cheek, as a balmy wind calms a troubled ocean
into which I’d gladly sink, and heaven would be there
in my drowning. A glass of wine, shimmers like a million shards
of sheet-lightning, and, for now, at least, I shall revel in this ...
the eye of a perfect Storm.