Face half shadowed,
A tilt of the head,
There a smile crinkles,
(Is this for me or a memory?)
A slight sweet scent,
Still air gently moved,
The rustle of your gown,
(How you fill my life and senses.)
The clock is counting,
Between dark and dawn,
There is no sleep,
(Paradise does not pick its time.)
Finger tips touched,
Soft warm hair caressing,
Skin burns with desire,
(Love’s language has been spoken.)
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 