The Marschallin: ‘Sometimes, in the small hours…’

Your ear like a shell, cream-coloured

And tinged with a flush

Around the smooth edges,

Almost transparent

In the early sun.


Your skin like finest sands

With the dawn upon them.

A curling lock of your dark hair,

Lank on your forehead,

Moist with the night.


Your neck proudly arched,

Like a harp’s harmonic curve,

Strings echoing a chiming clock.

And when I rest my head on

Your youthful breast

I hear the faint sound of passing time…



Of Killing Love

Love is a god, a boy,
A youth, a woman
Fair and dark, clad in stars,
They harken for your call.
Can you deny them? No.
Can you bind them? No.
No rules they know, the gods.
They laugh good-naturedly
At our follies.

To swear on love,
To sign for love,
To work, to plan
To cry for love.
To walk, to run,
To hide from love.

No code they made
To help us.
No words they gave
Defining love.
And changeable it is,
A momentary thing
It is to know love.

One thing there was the gods
Found right and so decreed it:
The surest way of losing love
Is to set rules to love.

© jsmorgane (Feb 2011)