Deviation Actions
Literature Text
eyes: you strike a resemblance to the
goddess of the oak-flowers baptised in
a vernal meadow, beckoning those who
would chant and proclaim your mysteries to
your side as you slide from the slippery
stones to drift back into the bosky wood.
Last Tuesday, when the rain faded away, I
caught you unawares as you brushed your flaming
locks by the sea-wall. Worshippers absent, the
clouds retreated slowly and your Sun shone in
full victory: it was in that light that
I could glimpse you as you are, not as you wish
to be, not as your devotees cast you,
and in that golden light you returned my look.
Today, it is raining again. Small droplets bounce
off the cobblestone walkway and splatter your bare
feet; there is reverence enough in them not to graze
your ankles. My eyes wander from your shoulders to
your chest, travelling your body, and reach your gale-green
eyes. You blink, and turn your head in my direction.
A splash of color in a sea of grey, and I
wish it would rain this way forever and again.
A night on your shoulder a stolen dream from the lane,
from the torrent, from the chill, from the dark. A part of
you, I am sure, wonders at my noiseless angst – for
you, life is a poppy-haze of tingles and twinges
set off by an Eastern breeze. I wish I could hold you
here for all Tuesdays, peaceful and ruby, silently
wild, dozing the doze of a pretty Welsh girl who exists
as a fond hope in the mind of the man holding her.
You will be only a memory, come the break of dawn.
