Midst morning musings my thoughts
spiral a direction that lies hidden in
desolate thunderous memories, old
memories of wind whisking through
the bell-tower, disturbing its evening
slumber. Buried in a hay-mound far
below, we hear its unchorused sound,
twenty-three times the bell tolls, in
unrhythmic dance, and then it stops.
Its haunting sounds from above
seem to guard our muffled moans
of desire. Our delicious joy in the
moment, our playful laughter, stops
as ominous silence descends. Our
rising passion becomes quiet as well,
but in time builds to such finely
wrought desire that we spiral
into a vortex of pleasures.
They find us lying sated in the hay,
panting softly in the afterglow of love,
seven of them, the King's men, and
we know we are doomed, that we will
pay dearly for our desire this day as we
scurry to cover our nakedness.
I shake off these finely grained sands
of memory. Recalled from where,
I wonder, as I spray hot water down
the drain of my freshly scoured
stainless steel sink. Strange that
I should see us there so vividly.
When did we make love under
the lengthening shadow of the old
bell tower so many centuries ago?
Who were we then? Who are we now?
Will love find a way this time?