Morning

It is morning already, the lapwing
taking to the air, a blue that fosters
sunshine, the verve of nature at 6a.m.
I followed your sleep last night

positioned as it was away from me,
your arms folded, my arms hoping
as the fields of a brown May to touch you,
hold you fast from imaginings

that harbour lies and misgivings,
repenting nothing but the sadness
of a smile that cannot quite fix itself
about the mouth.

And quite what alchemy makes your flesh
different from the rest I could not say,
the way in which doubts canker in your smile,
fetching the warmth of satisfaction

the way in which without giving in each day
I cancel my love of you which I must
following the grace of your splendour
that brings bright light

figuring the figures of the day
not bright enough to matter.
And it is I, love, unseen, the procession
of my life halted,

its repetitions, the spirit of me
gone now as I waken to the colour
of your skin, alabaster, the gentle
smell of romance that quickly

gathers carrying with it no poisons,
no predictions but the honest
leaning of those who know,
the great smile gathered through longing

suggesting nothing but the small of a life
having lost something, our arms around
one another collecting heat that comes
as a brief correction,

my love never given, my love never taken
in this, just another day, until tomorrow
falls with its new beginning, carrying
the weight of fresh pleasure.

John Cornwall

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