Mon ami.....

Three past the bewitching hour,

And the time is come, for all,

That is mine.

 

The tender zephyr,

That dandles my hair.

 

The gentle cream of that distant orb –

That oldest of my loves, whose gaze is a ceaseless armour,

Upon my timid soul.

 

The tiny beads of white flames,

That shower upon me the hushed luminosity of their adoration –

An urgent beckoning.

 

That ebon veil, with folds of smoky grey -

Ushers in an eternity’s worth of camaraderie.

 

I step outside my house,

And into my home.

 

The quietude – a reprise of the womb whence I sprung -  

A sober whisper of reassurance.

 

Three past the bewitching hour,

 

Mon ami est là.