The Poet’s Muse

I lie embowered in soft primeval moss
cushioned by maidenhair fern
the colour of true love,
my ivory flesh displayed to advantage,
a delicate Venus by Cranach, unadorned.
You approach with animal finesse,
your panting breath circling upon
my pale cheek
your roughness, maleness
overpowering my senses
your hold like nature’s vice,
spoiling the daisies–
you are not to be denied,
there is no pretty seduction,
just the thud of blood
which hypnotises
forging a brutal understanding
with bitter aftertaste.
And as you lie spent against my breast
as weak as water–you say nothing–
I am just your muse,
and words are held back–
precious offerings
shaken and stirred by internal alchemy,
destined to be poured
molten,
into your poetry.

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The Poet’s Muse

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