Tantalising... fantasising...
the pencil waits, in lingering bliss
above the virgin paper, spread impatient, for its graphite kiss.
Which path to follow?
Tugging heart-strings? Or a gentle, wistful smile?
the words... a soft caress, with which, the Ladies' memories to beguile?
Of loves that are... or might have been?
Of dreams, that may yet come to be?
of lovers whispering in the night; breathless, in their intimacy?


Tantalising... fantasising...
eyes slip slowly down the page;
not quite flowered to Womanhood... impatient now, to come of age.
"Will it be like that for me? Will he whisper words like these?
Will we be happy?... will he love me?
Oh, l hope so... Oh, yes... please."
She dreams the dreams, the poets spin, of love;
her innocence... so sweet;
for, in her sunlit world... no broken hearts;
not there... do lovers cheat.


Tantalising... fantasising...
thinking, "Oh, that's rather sweet;
so gentle and romantic; perhaps, tonight...
someone, I'll meet,
who's really special... thinks, like that; warm and kind; a gentle kiss...
and then, perhaps... is that the time?
Oh... does my bum look big in this?
Is my make-up picture-perfect? Should I wear a shorter skirt?
A touch of perfume in my cleavage?
How much to drink?... How much to flirt?"


Tantalising... fantasising...
just skip-reading down the screen;
kids in bed, the ironing done; ten minutes off to sit and dream.
The old man snoring in the armchair... lose herself in Cyberspace;
when was that young and handsome, sexy love, of hers...
by him, replaced?
She smiles, and looks back to the screen... a tiny poem, sad and sweet,
scrolling up... then... suddenly, it bites... and her heart skips a beat.
The memories come flooding back... those carefree days when first they met...
tear-drops hang like diamonds on her lashes... she has no regrets.


Tantalising... fantasising...
smiling as she reads the rhymes
that tumble from the poet's pen, and march in neatly metered lines...
proclaiming what?... the hopes and dreams, for love you found,
and later lost?
"I've been there too," she sadly thinks,
"but, was all really worth the cost?"
"Of course it was... I'm no spring chicken... but, I still know how to fly;
and that young man just down the road... I've seen him giving me the eye.
I think I'll call his bluff tonight...
I'll wear the blue dress; it's quite slimming;
those big brown eyes... those snaky hips...
Oh, please... let him like older women!"


Tantalising... fantasising...
peering closely at the screen;
characters a little blurry; eyesight... perhaps, not so keen
as it was,
so long ago; she was Eighteen... before the War...
and young men really spoke these words that she reads now,
alas... no more.
She was a beauty... many suitors... many lovers,
all long gone;
her memories... the sepia photos, neatly tied with pink ribbon.
Flying jackets, Lagonda drop-heads; tea rooms that they used to know...
A smile; shut down the Laptop... and remember, in the firelight glow.


Tantalising... fantasising...
pencil blunted, paper covered
with more gently woven musings... where the thoughts
have briefly hovered
like two sated lovers quietly bathing in the afterglow;
another magic journey down the waterfall, all poets know.
Hoping that the words spun out, will strike a chord...
a heart-string, tug...
enfold you in a soft embrace... tender, smiling... warm and snug
in the knowledge that, out there, Romantics always will be found,
striving to, perhaps, shine warmth upon such sad thoughts, that abound.