Morning Call
“Last night I dreamt of you.” A statement,
no more. Bland, no shade or shiver,
no ripple of substratal excitement,
nothing to stir a lover.
Detail dissolves, and your laughter blows
a stray whiff of chance to dreary trades,
a teasing tickle of the nose.
The tableau fades.
Yet something of that fleeting transit clings
to nudge a naughtiness or two
to aery imaginings:
paired by whimsy, me and you
play truant like children. The freeze-frame cracks,
thaws to life two figures in wax.
*****
no more. Bland, no shade or shiver,
no ripple of substratal excitement,
nothing to stir a lover.
Detail dissolves, and your laughter blows
a stray whiff of chance to dreary trades,
a teasing tickle of the nose.
The tableau fades.
Yet something of that fleeting transit clings
to nudge a naughtiness or two
to aery imaginings:
paired by whimsy, me and you
play truant like children. The freeze-frame cracks,
thaws to life two figures in wax.
*****
Labels: poetry
Selected by SPECKLED_BAND |
01:11 |
3 Comments:
Nice. I read this thrice in 24 hours and got a different feel each time. I think it's just vague enough to let the reader make what he wants out of it.
love your olde world spellings...they fit just right.
just wish your name weren't such a pointer to holmes and watson...
Pye, thank you! It was precisely that - 'a teasing tickle of the nose.'
Manisha, thank you for the kind words! I'm afraid the Holmes-Watson pointer was inevitable: I'm a devout, practising Sherlockian :) As such, I chose the name of the best (by popular consensus) story. Doyle himself rated it Number One in a competition run by the Strand Magazine for its readers :) Don't you like Holmes?
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