Cathedral
You will be
sitting one day
beneath shedding
May cherry blossoms,
on the
flower beds by our Cathedral.
Warm the
winds of spring,
thinking
little of nothing
amongst a
heliotrope
of bloodstone
blooms, but older.
And from
behind you,
two hands
will fall on either shoulder,
in your ear,
a soft voice trembles,
whispering: ‘don’t
look round’.
The hairs on
your neck will prick like thorn,
your heart in
its cage will thump reborn,
your face
moon-pale will flush in sunrise,
your blood will
flower into song that flies,
and in reply
you’ll make no sound.
But now your
fingers intertwine,
deep love
new buds upon heaving vine.
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