Love Letter

The old dialogue always begins
again between us.  But now
as spring ripens neither of us will
listen, a grand affection spoiled by
argument, the hard words of morning
that have established themselves
amongst your heather in the vase,
the one present from your Mother.

And the sky has no blessings for us:
it determines weathers, never once
reaching the warmth of our being
so discerning now that it almost
doesn't matter, the awful nerve
of years having given our comfort
doubt, lost it somewhere
along the way so that now
there is nothing left to say,

the cold presence of your bosom
etching minutes of satisfaction
that seldom last, the turned
miracle of a love left alone,
now the isolate cancelling doubt,
re-establishing comforts remembered.

But now the torn faces of our smiles
blister in the heat of the moment
signalling overtures of sighs,
the blank noise of no resurrections
that come to expurgate pleasures
falling as they do out of the blue,
an essence I cannot rightly feel,

yet God-free and everlasting.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on his poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.