Sunday, 26 April 2009


There are two sorts of love.
The first one burns. It tears
Bits of life off in its hunger,
Swallows everything
In jealous kisses.

The second is a blossom.
It has no need for food
But is the root-spark of
Grass, wind and touch.

This love is a patient
Steady passion, like a
Father’s cuddle.
It is God’s glance,
Warm like sunlight on
Your neck, or the tickle
Of the tide on your ankles

At once embracing
And unleashing
In short joyful rhythms.

Love is genius,
Or else romance
- Red-lipped and polished.
Love is you.
Spontaneous, gentle, childish.
It is your laughter,
That spreads like a morning sky
With its shifting pallet of pastel

Love is us.
A readiness to flower,
Even in erratic moods
And hard weather,
Which will crack us open
And blend our tongues.

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