Just bruited through a piece of work. How deadlines converge and cross, like divining rods, over a date.
Whilst working, I came across three little love poems I wrote from photographs of literary couples. These missed a deadline. I don’t know how well they stand without the pictures, but here goes.
Playful, that leaning back over the railing;
his mid-life spine not so playful,
but that loving look from her
makes it graceful.
Yesterday’s late-afternoon sunlight
illuminates that glance,
catches his silver hair,
binds them together;
all the hope for their future
mapped out in light and dark.
We know how it turned out.
They are not
the two halves of the understanding heart.
Her finger points up to Heaven;
his hands are crossed in his lap.
Patiently, he waits for her
all she needs to say
The cat disdains the handsome poet
who teases her with dangled string.
She has rich striped tortoiseshell fur, like a royal train,
and blatantly ignores him.
The man is striped by shadows from the outside world;
he will be acclaimed for what he writes.
His wife-to-be reads intelligently.
She is beautiful, like Cleopatra.
They are all at home together.