She was so special,

no woman on Earth has ever compared

to the serenity in autumn, winter

or in the spring, as ice flows fall,

smash into the water beneath

and sail, bobbing, stealthy jogging onwards,

partially melting as I hope

they were able to and in the end

finding open sea water to repeat the thousand year cycle,

of wear and tear and heartbreaking beauty

that flutters by in the whisper

of conversation by the floral clock

and finger licked clean Wendy Burger

when you have not looked at anything

else all day, because your mind

is taken, your eyes swell

as the lights come on around the

once proud Native American village

and you sigh so deeply, passionate

in the ear of the woman kissed,

but a frightened kitten mew

against the rage of the thunderstorm

that tumbles over the edge of the fall.

I think you are so beautiful,

so much so that on cloudless days

and the infrequent sun from summer’s

past, I think of you, my day and night

first time round when I sat and watched you

continuously undress, shedding each robe,

shedding skin,

revealing all you had to offer

and yet keeping so much hidden,

the depth of your affection;

one day I will return and swim

in your glow, the lights and the rage,

and I will let you pull me under,

to kiss me till I fall asleep.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016