Syncopation by Antony Young

later, cycling to the airfield where the windsock slides and lifts,
thoughts of yourself in silk: blossom laden in the wind.
But now before breakfast, I prefer sitting
and pulling this waist into proximity, to stand you towering indulgently.

Returning through hours of darkness, to undressing
which is not the quick exact science of dressing,
but has humour: light fingers unbuckle a broad belt
and when leaning, your hair falls forward,
I`m subdued on the brink of a waterfalll
where it is difficult to hear.

Sheltered between sheets, veiled thoughts
to tenderly craft a passion, biting fingertips,
as the sea seethes between stones.
Your collaboration is unfaltering, guiless in submarine silence,
and deeply absorbed.

While a white sail hangs in blue fathoming depths,
you reciprocate: easing a knee upwards.
And we strain as two close-hauled to heel hard
with gaff sails taut, and only metres between boards, cleaving blue.



Want more? Read Somewhere. Missing. Whereabouts Unknown

Nah, time for Prose

Go back to Issue 2

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