His handprint across your face
blushed red, as the sunset lay murdered
on the horizon, its blood burning in a fireplace
laid by Orion in the skies. I often wondered
what made me think of pears and French grapes,
and why I didn’t choose Cristal over that rosé
wine, dusted with gold filigree shapes:
love-hearts that came free with your bouquet.
But on your breath they were ictarine sparks
pleating the savannah’s heat before my eyes,
as we leant in close like young monarchs
tired of unwoven sighs and bad wordplay.
Do you remember we watched hot air
balloons pedalling the sky over a watercolour savannah?
Caught in orbit, they seemed to remain there,
like fathers of the absent rain, watching our samba.
And later, when we said goodbye on the veranda,
you pretended our kiss was a childish dare
and walked away, avoiding the fanfare.
/ attempt at rhyming >.<
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