The Lych-gate is a collection of 100 poems and sonnets written around the subject of Autumn and our twilight years.
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Wild flung amongst the Wheat
Sultry July; when lost-forever-hours drift by,
Like lazy clouds.
Post orgasmic, spent, we lie,
Mirroring the torpid afternoon,
Heavy languor drugs the day
As summer’s perfume fills the shaded room.
Lush nectar fills the flower
Full blossomed grows the rose
The bee sips hour by hour
Her drone hymns our repose.
With shallow breath the breeze licks fevered flesh –
Cooling erotic fires
Which flamed as bodies twined like liquid eels
And eager softness captured muscled steel
Until excruciating pleasure at love’s peak;
Then slow release, descending into blankness.
Through air-vaults, azure, deep
Swallows arc on high,
Mare’s tails wisp the sky
Scarce moving as we sleep.
In limpid eddies coital pleasures fade
And lovers drowse, serene;
Eyes which glowed with urgent hot desire
Are blank and hyalescent, hypnotised,
Insensate, lost where silent currents flow
Down torrents in loves sensuous undertow.
Wild flung among the wheat
The crimson poppies blow
Their fume drifts on the heat
Of mid-day, nodding slow.
Our transient tempest: maelstrom of delights
Is spent for now.
Yet from narcotic lassitude of day
Comes carnal Night
Whose subtle darkness velvetly conspires
To whet once more desires keen appetite.
By the meadowsweet
Soft drying grasses blow
All life seems idle slow
Wrapt in the mid-day heat.
This world’s rich opulence is ripe
For sensual taking.
Voluptuousness abounds,
Dark, fecund, aching,
Inviting, in abandon joy,
New making!
Shades glide and evening’s chill
Draws mist-wraiths from the lake,
Now Pan stirs on the hill
And Venus starts to wake.
Nature claims us for her own,
We must obey her strict imperative:
‘This is your hour, combine to make new life,
Which time from you is taking’!
Poor marionettes compelled, dance while you may
Ecstatic to life’s oldest roundelay.
Now autumn brings decline
Life’s harvest is complete,
Now I lie replete
With loves sweet wine.