Luna

On our first meeting, waltzing through Hyde Park,

we learned each other, slowly. Dancing words,

staccato, punctuated laughter. Dark

eyes set on smart, orchestral, emerald birds.

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One year of shared air, monthly chamomile

beneath the spilling lunar blessing. With

that pearly bath of night, we drank a smile

of Tempranillo, left for Soho's gift.

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Pink corduroy, black silk, ivory lace

adorning modest slips of opal breasts.

That place for lovers' meetings - outer space,

contained and underground, hidden from pests.

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A revelation borne of garnet mouth

confided hopes for winter: travel south.