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
into your poetry.

The Poet’s Muse

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s