Although in the past
I may have considered myself
More of a ‘brunette’ sort of a man,
Relying solely on the rumoured
Mystery and aloofness,
Your blond offering could yet sway me.
And while I might compare it to
Rays of sunlight on a summers day,
It is perhaps more akin to the odd
Deliciously pale bowl of rice pudding
Or a pat of unsalted butter.
A soft dove’s wing with just the
Faintest hint of the sun’s glow,
If only to escape the food images.
But now the peacocks cry
Calls me out into the garden.
I will sip on tea and
Consider your complexities,
Your intricacies and your silence.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 