We, Nocturnal

Sweet, nervous, encouraging kisses
… careful upon the wet cobbles…
we shift from shadow
to underneath each overhang,
when the full Moon
owl-blinks, solemnly,
as the Milkman rattles bottles,
in a far too careless
for the delicate wee hours, manner.
Continuously switching
from ‘Lead’ to ‘Follow’
in dark, romantic enthusiasm,
we’re weaving, around,
and, between things,
naturally and clairvoyantly.
The Gateway to Sanctuary can… wait,
as I hurdle, then catch
you as you fence-drop
into my, made-for-you, arms
… and then we’re away,
leaving only the slightest,
nimble-underfoot-grass-rustle…
to where the Oak Tree
grows young again,
and both roots and their branches,
entwine, deep, within their own Melody.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.