I will not be ashamed to own my love
to shout it from the rooftops with all joy —
to cry out from the mountaintops above —
the highest herald themes will I deploy.
For I have played the secret games of queens
who swept me under carpets, behind doors;
who scrubbed me from their world by any means —
who made sure that I stayed within their drawers.
But hiding under skirts is not for men
nor knights who sing their ladye’s name with praise.
To be the cloistered closet jewel again
betrays the very heart of love’s own blaze.
I cannot be a secret of my maid
for love must by its nature be displayed.
© 2011, Alan Morrison