The lover’s first kiss

There is that moment,
a pause,
that does not trouble time
with demands for days, hours or minutes.
It is when a thousand pieces of jigsaw
fall to earth as a picture whole,
or when a single drop of rain bursts
upon each and every leaf at once,
and when eyes blacken,
the pupils opening wide,
offering mutual surrender, releasing
lips to gently purse and touch.
All around greys to a fade,
and sound holds it’s breath as
senses gather and focus on this one act.
An act that can never be just so again.
That love and passion,
will always express themselves with a kiss
is certain and always here after
remains that knowing,
only this one time can
a kiss feel like this.


Generations v2

Cake crumbs tumble from eager lips
as small hands wipe buttercream,
smears on school trousers,
watched by dew laden pale eyes,
that sparkle still under a creased
brow and the lock of a white hair
question mark, that seems to ask
what he’s thinking.
The old face, lights up as young
legs tap in time to her favourite song.
She loved to sing.
He hears her still
when the lad comes calling, asking to
hear the old tunes , with tea & cake,
sat in a well worn chair scented with
strange pipe aromatics, the smoke resting,
spent from working the heat of hot coal.
Young eyes look again, hinting, at the
box on the hearth.
An old smile given consent and it’s opened.
Bits and bobs placed with reverence on
the chair arm, the beautiful singer, cap badges,
cigarette cards, each has a story heard before,
that young ears want to hear again
and an old voice again wants to tell.

I fear to miss her special day

I fear to miss her special day,
when all her beauty,
without and within cannot be held,
but leaps at life and is wondrous,
wondrous as a kiss between sun and moon.
She will turn Gothic stone into
flawless marble that day, and the
air will be filled with rose scent
floating on the crackling static
about the chosen few, as their heads
swivel hoping to claim first sight.
And I will smile, when alone, silently
holding her favourite stuffed toy,
watching her sleep one last time,
in a room forever hers, before the morn.
And the music will sing
‘Behold the bride !’
and I will see only my little girl,
my beautiful child.
I know on that day, the love she feels
will not be for me alone,
and though another man
has stolen my throne,
my blessing I will gladly give.

A raindrop

I caught a raindrop before the shower came,
or maybe it caught me,
my cupped hand I held out, so to tell
if the storm was on it’s way.
It’s landing left only the slightest touch,
and in an eyelid flick of time, it ran,
capturing odd tiny rays of light as it
coursed around callous and crease on
the miniature palm etched map .
From how high had this perfect pearl
fallen, only to be delayed in completing
it’s mission by my unexpected hand.
Undaunted, it slipped over my skin
to the ground, disappearing into that
beneath, to refresh the first crocus
as it struggled to arrive in spring time.