a poem of love


It was never so easy, memories collected  

are never postage stamps set in an album

Recognition is the open door by which 

we become the amalgam   

The means we apply to access one another, 

play different games, embrace many names

Fondness is a name I learned from the autumn sun 

and our favourite haunts

The first time we met, was another jaunt 

but your face was still familiar

A rush of something similar, I caught, 

sure that we must have met before

You seemed as someone I had hoped to meet 

or maybe I was found out

In the moment passing, I stepped back, 

had I noticed you were glancing?

Was my heart now really dancing? 

something born to make us happy?

You were so young but I was not old, 

your femininity did not scare me

It made me strong, an artist and you the clay, 

words were suddenly easier to say

Not worn clichés or a yellowed bouquet 

but a thunder followed by lightening

Love discovered in the bushes is no less frightening, 

unless we fear the orange sun,

the purple moon, the comet trail 

of a lovers pain in marine skies advancing 

You to me were a treasured find that eased 

certain allusions of my serious mind

With hindsight, the poet battles gamely 

to hide the most considered of conclusions

Despite the wake of love, an ambient balm 

that may heal historic contusions

A kind of new birth arrises from the girth 

and separates what is gone from what is born

We were Adam and his Eve, 

the serpents power unwound, tried again to deceive

Naked upon the heath, beneath Swiss mountains, 

at Loch Ech, our hideaway in Leith

We flaunted, showed the green-eyed Jezebel

our love was never fit for any hell

Our purest union rang an unseen bell, 

saints attended, nets are not always mended

Into our bed we welcomed our children three, 

four or five, the ones alive we nurture

Adorn with garlands born of our loves travail 

and the labour that we learn to savour

Lives we helped create are a trophy to us truthful, 

all their futures and their tales

I boast as though I were a captain, 

though best an honest seaman much afraid of waves

More suited to the sanity of caves, 

where simple men carve simple words and draw

I, as honest in my way as any conniving fox, 

wore my fleeces well before I knew thee

Was hidden still a little in my shell, 

before you ever thought you knew me well

You need to be like the fox, be crafty, 

our home at London Road forever drafty

Wherever you have been with me you have tried 

to be a comrade to my private army

Have shown a character and faithfulness 

when we have faced life’s next tsunami

Yes, you chide and show disdain 

for my darkest moments, sincere regrets

You apportion blame, bare she-wolf teeth, 

fight for the honour of a mother’s lair

Only a mother has the right thus to care, 

even when the eyes of reason are clouded

And the Grey-wolf licks his torn paw, 

alone with the night winds and one faint star

We haven’t dared yet speak of Ruth’s prettiness 

or her beauty, your happy ways

They often adorn thee a cloak to your personal form, 

which only a lover should know

Yet, the night we first lifted your dress, 

stood each naked, I needed no sense of duty

Valentine he hides in a shroud of mystery 

although he were a Saint loyal and true

The same form, the same constancy 

is what I find in you, he mistreated, unrecognised

By his values, his bartered steps 

hidden from this worlds most popularist view 

Yet in milder ways, discerning eyes may recognise 

this strength of virtue that I see in you

Not once to venerate or exascerbate 

any healing virtue of your truth but to quantify

that particular charity of Ruth, 

a more than fitting sudiname to your eternal youth

That youth once seen to appreciate is now mine to elevate, 

semblance from disorder

Recognise and appreciate, the tunes you play 

with patient style become our piano sorte

Distinct and sublime like fresh flowers in a rhyme, 

which is your creative forté




Ruth 1:16-17: 

But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. 



Ref. 15102020




About edenbray

I am a writer ... a beat poet who began writing poetry way back in 1966 ... 'edenbray is born ugly, wet, covered in blood, mucous & bodily functions, the effluence of my short life' ... I recently published my 1st solo Anthology - the best of 60 years writing - previously I ran my own Art Supplies Store for 40 yrs before I became a full-time writer I am a Blogger who has posted 1,000 poems - available in 24 themed booklets ... please ask for details + leave a 'like' or a comment for my encouragement, thank you so much for listening - I truly value your opinion on my work ~ in fact I literally survive on your creative input ~ edenbray
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