She listens like a bird,

head cocked to catch the slightest nuance of breath

formed by lips of honeycombed sentences

where she is lost therein

I watch the moon bestowing light,

searching for my own inner pulse,

afraid it has died like coals winking to death.

The vapours of dawn drift through the window open to the morning

gliding wet and naked as sylphs.

The air

which at dusk wafted thick as the smoke from burnt roses

Solid sensation,

liquid evaporation of joy

to vaporous mist.

This bliss is euphoric,

White bark and lint-flecked trunks,

branches bare as cello strings to be plucked by the wind.

I sigh into this solitude

vacate the hollowed spaces within

The knife of fear is cold and blunt

upon the tractability of my mourning mind.

Why mourn the bright day

when the night is so much deeper?

Wet pigment leaks upon waves.

A soft honeycomb illusion,

this invigorating air tinged with salt

and astir with tumescent clouds all swirling to fulfilment.