On the margins of thought

Woken in the early hours
             by the sound of rain
on the windowpane
             my mind not quite alert
wanders from thought
             to thought : the variations
in atmospheric pressure
             the highs and the lows
the dance of time
             on the sheer glass
the push and pull
             of passion and the lust
that leads love into immortality
             a tongue not known
for its discretion
             the strain against
the moon-driven tide
             images of the world
sifted through secular light
             and all the subtle
architectures of love
             at my disposal
one sky at a time
             my thankfulness
for her naked
             tenderness

John Lyons