Arising forth from 'cross the glen
comes low the sweetened sapphire song
of the poet whose words from marbeled pen
endure the day, and the night, prolong.
With sonnet's sense of lyrical thrum
his cadence calls and, drawing nigh,
is placed, anew, distraction's drum
to induce with ease, a muse's reply.
As kisses now fall upon the throat
of one with music placed into her voice,
and from his lips, spills a poetic quote,
intuition allowing his tender choice.
An honest ache, time's toll revealed
as fingers find the treasures there
and trace the tiny locket, sealed
and mingled, moist, in heathered hair.