Summit Tryst [poem]
When you looked me in the eye and stared into my soul
for several minutes long (or so it seemed while timeness
passed us by) as you lay upon that cold but lively heap of rock
[it was, you said, the highest point of ground around — a fact
which spoke to me of huge and heavenly angel ultrasound]
I saw a thing I’ve never seen in anyone before:
It was a wholly open door behind which hid a hesitant but
lovely hand whose fingers pressed upon the wood, readied
so to slam, as if expecting footsteps lest some uninvited man
should through presumption take that stretchly stride to
realms beyond your mind and taste the drenched and
deeply dreamfeast that you truly muchly are.
The heart of me was spinning round so fast that even
I was sharp astounded when I richly moonly scented
perfumes from the air which flowed from way beyond the
entrance to that door. The beauty of that summit tryst is
knowing wide and downly that there could be so much more.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 