My lady, suffer not this fool who present holds your favour,
For he is but a pleasant toy and everwhile the knaver;
You see this love as one which, given time, shall fairly blossom,
Yet you are but the apple tree and I am but your possum.

By nature’s course we have been met, and mated by our wishes,
And here at heaven’s inn we cull our grapes from golden dishes;
However words once left must now be flourished in the open,
For parted dreams in joinéd hearts need not see both hearts broken.

I have no quarrel now betimes but that which you beseech me,
Indeed I search as children might so you would further teach me –
Forgive me, mistress, such duress as I have wrought upon you,
It is my heart and not my mind which you do e’er belong to.

We have a movement to the day not common ‘twixt the people,
And this is harnessed with an arméd line taught by the steeple;
We are withal, as one may say, one nut and bolt together,
(Though such a coupling publicized would paint us in the heather).

So thus we have a space for selves kept secret from the masses,
While meantime you ignore the boys and I shall miss the lasses;
And if such miracle occurs as we retain this union,
The world will see the gods and we have plotted in collusion.


May 1979 (as amended)
© Michael G Reid 1979-2011