Poetry
Pure love is soft as petal folded roses
accountable stars to darkened spaces
Chaste and true and fastens the heart
As it races
The longing of the maiden
is as painful and dangerous as bramble and thorn
yet has refuge from impending storms.
My gratitude I’ll then declare,
in folded arms and closed eyes like prayers
I marvel now how I can bear thoughts of the lady
of a distant grail
river flows and golden hair
These torments wound me so down
in the meadow of dreams where sweet birds sigh
If she’ll grant me her love in any measure,
as honest and noble as I am true
heaven does not seem so far or high or removed.
The winged birds know my song
of songs
when I carry her words
In my breath her pain and the time that has passed through suffering
Before dust is on the wind and frail memories fade
like a ray of light speckled
the angel appears and all is revered.
Lady,
I shall have much honour
If ever the privilege is granted of touching your hand
Beneath the cover of sheltering branches drenched in rain.