I’m going to steal your broken heart, I said;
but not by force for that would be beyond
the dovetailed frame of love and peace.
If I could have your unmuted consent I’ll carry
it away and in my funfurred lair we’ll play.
Love makes me nervous, said she; her
coolness startled by my earthy brevity.
And from her glazed expression I can see
I made a strange impression on her
lifelong gathered concentricity.
I’ve not had much experience with love
she said, with a tear on her cheek.
I thought that strange for, married twice,
two kids in tow, you’d think there’d been
some room for love’s greenl roots to grow.
But when I questioned her some more
she qualified her terms and then we
could explore the many-splintered
aspects (as she sweetly said) of love’s
designs (and added: “I’m a thoroughbred”).
Intrigued, I wondered how this pedigree
had galloped through her fields yet never
found the feel of full frondescent love.
I don’t mean merely love you see in films,
she pined. So which one do you have in mind?
That really deepsome love, she said,
the soulish kind I mean, is that which has
evaded me since I was seventeen
or even less. Earlier she’d giggled
in my ear yet now she stared (but I digress).
I didn’t tell her yet of how that kind
of love can even touch a soul without
regret for just a fleeting time but yet
still be enough to heal the brokenness
and not a meagre token of repair.
But something in her eyes declared she knew.
The only mystery: How that could ensue.
© 2012, Alan Morrison