The rain keeps irregular time
pattering on peeling window frames;
the birds settle in the autumn hours
and I take to dream upon your name.
Softly the syllables I mouth
as if to conjure flesh made real;
you would bring
your timeless beauty
and a tender kiss I’d steal.
I labour just to tire
to toil that I may rest;
to hold you not in my imagination
your head soft upon my chest,
to hear nothing
but my beating heart
dull; slowed with peace,
to wander Wordsworth’s daffodils
hand in hand
no hill too steep.
The alarm clock rings
you are lost to the working light;
no matter how short my days
to my night.
© Copyright D. Archer October 2011