Photo courtesy Pixabay
Rain filters through intertwined branches
misting the contours of my upturned face.
Fine droplets (like tears of joy)
run together and fall to the parched soil
as spasms of pleasure
(given muffled voice against your wool clad shoulder)
shake my pinned form.
Yr back and thighs
(rain slicked under my frantic hands)
moving in urgent, virile rhythm,
as we, too, share in the pleasure
of the newly nourished earth.
About this post
When I was sorting out the spare room the other day to create studio space, I relocated some more of my writing from way back when. So this is a poem written for Ryan back then – about 6 months into our relationship.
I still remember that day of warm, misty rain – it’s been a bit like that this last few days – the first rain in quite a while – very welcome. Ryan’s jumper, a fine heathery mottled purple wool, wonderfully soft, with a piece of unravelled wool at the wrist…
And finally, I remember damp leaves and fine silty mud slowly coating my hair, back, arse and thighs. And his knees.
To see who else is parting of activities of a sexual nature or masturbating to memories – you know what to do (click on the button below)…