Don’t deceive me precious morning
no, my love, do not –
your skin’s so fresh and born in air,
deceptions leave their marks
on there: like the tick
of cloud on the blue of sky
above the startled hills.
I need you to be true,
my love,
when I breach sleep and walk barefoot
yawning to the morning room,
day tugging on my sleeve already
asking for a piece of this or that.
I need your held breath,
your pale stare,
your cool complacent unmarked cheek
and the way you sit, transparently
waiting for me.
8 comments:
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What a beautiful poem.
Oh, Mary, this is an astonishment of beauty, so delicate, so quietly fierce--and imagine being so intimate with morning. Just gorgeous. Thank you.
Lovely to see a poem that is so unashamedly tender.
The soft pleading - the repetition of the word 'need' is so delicate but so demanding. Gorgeous poetry, Mary! As always!
It's a lovely morning image so fresh - that wonderful time out in the country has perhaps renewed your soul for poetry? Gorgeous.
Lovely!!
Just come to this - already three 'gorgeous' one 'beautiful' and a 'lovely' and all I can say, is where do they all spring from - such a bounty of beauty. Oh, and 'tender'.
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