That sleeping serpent coiled around my core
was startled into pristine wakefulness,
at first by one brief glancing eye unsure
and then another which removed the guess.
Then soon the honeyed knife — whose blade’s so sharp
that one can never know has entered in
till after it has found its purposed mark —
had pierced that scaly flesh, was deep within.
But yet this time I felt it carve right through;
as if a jolly butcher with a smile
and ruddy cheeks had cleared a way to you
and there you stood before me, clear. No guile.
So now that knife must cut a bloodless trail.
The blade of love that footpath will unveil.
© Alan Morrison, 2014