Anne

The wind whispers down to the
frozen lake, where swans arch
their graceful necks, snowy white.
The wind whispers into the candlelit
place, where the kiss presses down upon
the skin below the jaw, smooth and warm.
The wind whispers through the busy
streets, along the hurrying, restless, straining
necks. The wind, the wind, it whispers, it
whispers, up to the wooden block, up past
the simple bodice, and down, down,
down upon the pale, clear neck.

for Anne, much love, Henry, His Majesty, the King

mornings will come,
daybreaks will shine through,
in this darkness of your home your
life will burst into flames of joy. I swear it.
on every life at my disposal,
I offer you my word,
watching, praying, hoping for the
day when a heart will whisper once again
to your neck that the world is alright.
I'm calling away; booking a leave,
for a month, for a year, possibly a lifetime.
But we will, we must and shall meet again, on
the peak of the hill where the orange tree grows
and in the harbour of life there waits a white ship;
growing, expanding and waiting for us, just the two of us.
I know where your heart lies, my cages of rushing
wind encase the dreams for a lifetime. but understand, understand,
please understand that for now,
I,
Must,
Leave.