MONACLE
remote ramblings,
stepped and spoken;
like gamblings
that bloomed-
only to be broken,
wandered
and roomed,
waited on quiet landings
like squandered perfume-
left open.
marxist marches.
mithril kisses under gothic arches-
role playing elf and cleric
in cold caves removed from Berek
the Halfhand's chronicle,
seem mesmeric-
when seen through monacle.
but the other eye looks back too,
inside this rhapsody with you;
and the light-
switched off.
switched on.
off,
and on,
loving day and night-
through prose phases
and shared phrases
of captured sun and moon-
like mellow yellow, stroking white witches broom;
knows nature's laws
has moods
and flaws
in her quietudes-
that reason cause,
and fathom clues.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 8th December, 2009. All Rights Reserved.