Heliotrope

come this autumn, we'll be miles away....
take my hand;
we'll follow the arrow-head of some sky-borne south-
seeking flock. tide-pitched, down to where the white
horses thunder for miles out of sea. ivory-tipped,
tremendous & vast, a voice that echoes with a primal past.
and, in my lattice of bones, a voice answers....
oh, these knife-blade waves will cut no flesh:
their blustering threat simply melts to foam halts
vapours and is gone. the startling bright aggression
is just a play of the light. the stiff whipped peaks that
volley and fly will settle a blanket at our feet. in their
weedy depths, they speak softly, murmer of some secret
tenderness a word uttered in private, never to be
repeated. listen _ it is a language poignant and exact.
i can't tell you exactly what i feel for you - the words,
inarticulate, resonate in the belly of the waves....
take my hand;
we'll mark a path amongst the pebbles and the ripe salt
pools that brim with the smell of sex. there is nothing here
to hem us in overhead, the sky stretches for miles....