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Sunday Morning |
I arrived late(r than usual)
after the annual steam train and
bank holiday weekend
traffic of tourists
we sat at a café table in the corner
top floor, as I requested. You talked; I listened
with warming heart and disposition
elevated aeons from insignificance
I was moved to feel you in a new light
feel a new vibrance caressing
my vulnerable skin
and who would have thought the day
would be more than lunch –
sandwich- and cappuccino-talk
or toast, as it were
something of an evolution
of words, myself, time; and
you were always nearby – a gem
concealed in a familiar crowd
given the chance, there was a spark connection
and you don’t know, but that morning
I watched you sleep, so beautifully
and suspect you may have, also
your scent better than a promised best breakfast
and perhaps the bed was not the source
of such peaceful bliss and comfort –
the couch likewise, where we vanished
in each other in one breath
special warmth of anticipation:
when will I next see you? Feelings
transcend this page, explanation.
too much, too soon? Only time
reserves the answer
either way, we share this poem
so we can remember
sunday morning
forever
copyright 2006
Kevin
Doran |
