Prophecy (Artistic Dreams)
Whilst March blows its first warning, she sits tight
observing her Winter Nomads returning for Spring,
pastel shades blossom in a place of bare-naked foils
her cream broderie anglaise keeps her virginial in this, his Utopia.
She is a prophecy of artistic licence, an unfinished masterpiece,
breathing his cerebral vaults, only calling when he is feeble,
he attends her desires to remain untouched and yet melancholic,
until an April breeze idles quiet, under water melon horizons.
With boughs strong, she holds on tight for pleasure,
an unrequited symphony, a ghost on a swing,
perhaps the last line pre-emptive, his afterlife brings………
@Nick Hawkins, all rights reserved, 5/1/13
The Boy From Here 