A Tuscan Sunset

Love danced
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Panacea and a panopoly,
Not of a clunky bronze
Cuirassier’s
Arrow-riddled armour
For defending hearts
Flintlock futures
Penetrated easily, no;
Etymologies discarded
And I deferred the word
To verse and cursive
Arrangements of Love,
The fruits of Spring’s
Labour cascaded
Through your arteries
As remedies for writers’
Journals, and they
Gave it a name,
Writer’s Block,
For their
Blank pages were as
Sphinx-like
And eternal as the
Unblinking eyes
Of a glaring of cats.

So I write for you,
Remembering the extent
Of the scent and the sight
Of olives, peppermint
And citrus oils,
All excited and
Heightened
The senses for
Your hair unbridled with
A Tuscan fire of oranges,
Imbued me
With new romantic
Prophesies.

Primavera skies,
A parabolic shift
Under the cupolas
And blissful
Wisteria witnessing
As we kissed.
Sunset’s backdrops recanted,
We waltzed
With perfect timing
Over the catacombs
Of what we once had,
But never could return.

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