Nothing is lovelier than love, said she;
and this despite misgivings that she held.
Her heart, downed and skeltered by life’s rich scree
still nonetheless in fertile hope full dwelled.
It has to be a true song of the heart,
she said, no more willing to compromise
the pristine-coated soundness of her art —
an urge with which I wholly empathise.
Please know that it is never love which hurts
but only human foolishness applied.
To push or dam the river disconcerts;
we can’t ignore the sacred inner guide.
I earned her feathered dart’s unswerving flight
and wonder if she’ll tryst this riding knight.
© 2011, Alan Morrison