… as your carefree skipping step
held hands with my swagger.
The early afternoon horizon
tilted giddyingly,
sonic-booming a Scold Of Jays
skyward from the trees
into a pinkish brown/electric blue
heart-shaped riot before us.
I once more believed
in something thought lost…
a soaring natural intoxication
unequal in both its
dangerousness and euphoria.
The Grey Gentleman
who street preaches
‘Woe, Woe and Thrice Woe’
upon Bleak Corner…
frowned deeper, shook his head softly,
turned and drudged defeated home.
As the syllables of your excited voice
scaled and abseiled
like kamikaze musical notes
all around my happy, bewildered head
and un-weighted shoulders.
They must have called Monet
in to paint this day…
and Welsh Merlin for the Magic.
Feel this crescendo building
emotional peak-wards,
shake off the shudders and tingles…
come on now, and I’ll race you.
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