Desire

Beyond the days, the voice of longing calling –
small birds reflected in the silent lake
and white clouds, at an ambling horse's pace,
the smells of earth and hyacinths that wake
a wistful feeling that's too vague to place,
arresting morning, thoughts of elsewhere stalling –
there's just this moment and this cool, clean air,
dry soil that's hardened by the wattled roots
that grace its surface, light and green and fair,
new leaves on last year's branches, slender shoots
of tall old trees and velvet petals falling
upon a sleeping form like blessings spilt,
on long dark hair, bare upper arms obscured,
some inches of bare back, a crumpled quilt –
a glad abandon that would soon have cured
me of this lonely voice of longing calling.