She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. The beautiful
lily in the lake beside me sheds a tear
of dew, as gently, mayflies take
their flight to grant some privacy.
A sudden snap of that lachrymal
drop flicks fragrance t’wards
my nose. Part frozen by the
morning’s bite, and further
from her numbing kiss, I feel
compelled to tear a section of my
face clean out, and from it
mould a sculpture so delightful
that perhaps I could present
it to her, laced with brittle
lily stems (the flowers for her hair).

She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. My heart
may well dissolve inside these
waters if she utters more. Her
swaying toes brush lightly on
the surface and I wonder if
these ripples nagging at my
feet are kin to those with
which she plays. A fleeting
smile, a glance across, and
trees that sit in patient thought
behind me could not, even in
their first-year bloom, sing
out with such innate, unaltered
majesty as that which radiates away
from the rapture in her eyes.

She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. Her achromatic
hair leans softly in some lakeside
breeze and flows, a mass of beauty,
calling out to feel my touch (I can
almost sense her subtlety caress
my neck with brush-like strokes,
painting a tender masterpiece).
The soothing croon of graceful
herons sweeping just above the water
turns to fanfare in my ears and
vivid opaline reflections merge into a
winged blanket, glinting in the sun
(love-hymns of divine proportions
circulate this quiet place, and
I can feel her heart resound).

She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. Disrobing now
entirely, she dives, a vibrant peregrine,
into the placid, icy pool. The frigid waters
trace her gleeful entrance with
acute precision, melting softly on her
skin, and frozen airborne crystals
nestle lightly in a waterfall of silken
hair, a glacial curtain veiling
her delight. I am the sun,
and she the lady-Icarus, her
waxen smile a hard-set honey,
brought into a mild room and
ever softening with each advance
she makes, until an ardent blaze
of passion flashes fiercely in our kiss.

She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. And I awake
(my reverie escapes and flees into
the forest, lurking in the canopy).
Her flawless shape of elegance
emerges from that flowing mirror,
sprinkling a myriad of crystals on
the mossy bank. The secondary image of
a leaving light retreats behind her
drying crown (a perfect capital eclipse
creates a rippled halo). But stronger
winds, heeding the dusk’s arrival,
cut acutely at the water and she shatters,
like a butterfly too tightly clutched
inside a young girl’s fist, dispersing
shards of colour, fragments of a dream.

She whispers with a crisp precision,
scented words of love. Those words
seem fainter now that nightsong
floods my sense – harmonic whistles,
hums and whirs, all overlying
hisses of cascading silence.
Softer still, as though her lips pressed
closer to a lover’s ear than ever could a
mother hold her son inside a safe embrace.
And now the light has weakened
such that she’s departed from my
sight, the lily closes, insects hide from some
nocturnal fright. And I,
alone with sounds of isolation,
tear my face apart, as lovers’ steps fade from
my ears and warm towards the night.