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Autumn 2020 Poetry

Slow, Smokeless

by Elias Rimer

Abreast we lie, allay,
   Whilst you tenderly sip
Cold — asleep. I survey:
   Wisps arise from your lips
And they quiver, murmur
   Of dreams, your eyes flutter;
But O, my fair amour,
   Your cheeks — their colour!

A morning rose would not
   Glory jovial blush
As they do. Minute blots
   Of pale yellow, like lush
Lilius, freckle them;
   As would a painter
Nimbly texture a stem.
   Astute oil, only fainter.

No sharpness to touch,
   No bones to flay
And mal-form. Dunes of Kutch,
   Soft, white — a duvet
Blanketing, as the snow
   Outside veils the hill.
Winter supplies the glow
   That warms this mourning chill.

All too calm. I must be
   Aware that I cannot hold —
Basking in serenity —
   That of Midas’ Gold.
For now, the ice is outside
   So, leave us to bide
As two lovers embrace —
   Sensing their love erase.

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