The breeze which hangs around me says surprise
and something’s in the air with pregnant yen.
I caught a glimpse of light in Saturn’s eyes —
in space beyond my stalled carcinogen.
The carpet stretched in front is coloured red;
my cobwebbed old tuxedo takes a bow.
The wind then howled: “I want you in my bed”.
The spirit in me said “Let’s do it. Now”.
“But are you apprehensive?” said that breath
of freshsome bluster on the broken gale.
“No, not at all,” said I. “I’m used to death.”
Then out stepped I upon that hidden trail.
Though I’ve been drawn upon such ways before
I’ve never felt such wanton, raw allure.
© Alan Morrison, 2015