Saturday, September 6, 2014

Wild Barley

Ah, but men do remember her,
With a quickening pulse. . .
Whenever they kiss their austere loves
Whose mild lips are but an icy lance
To one who has loved this woman.
She was wild barley in the wind!
The earth sang and the moon was a bright drum
Of heady rhythm;
Beating. . . beating with Eve curved throb of Eden
Muted to pale languor, pale as magnolia bloom
Heavy with perfumed rapture.
Men shall remember her with secret longing
Deep as life. . . remember the lure of her vibrant throat
And her laughter.
There is never enough of that, nor of the way
Soft fingers can riffle a man's calm
And measure the chord of passion.
Briar and thorn were as plush in her arms.
Yet, she sleeps in the potters field.
Not that it matters. . . fields are fields,
Whether they be cut swards or . . . barley waving.


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