How nervously do dance the fingertips
While playing out our love on every string,
And to our hearts they bring, with rhythms soft,
A happiness that wefts aloft, and weaves
Such intricate harmonious chords that feed
Our bodies, till so stirred our blood becomes,
And so absorbed inside our loving, that
Nothing exists beyond the rush of now,
Except perhaps the whoosh of Angel’s wings,
And picking up the pace swift lyra bow
States loud intent to seal the instant of
Our falling, urgent so we don’t forget
The very moment, nor the place we met,
The sun so bright it blocks out every sound,
Every worldly gibe, until the shadows
On the damask hide in a shift of leaves,
That set cicadas rattling the olives,
Like a chorus of crones trying to sing.
Quietly in its last refrain it slows,
The melody now fixed, the bow content,
Each note recalled, reeled in, the work complete,
Its spell forever etched within our feet,
Magic perfume scents the air around, and,
We, ecstatic, whisper wine soaked kisses,
Listening to the pound of each others heart,
Hypnotized by song, not knowing the hour,
Only blue eyes: blue eyes and a longing.
Jane Sharp
9 July 2010
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Jane Sharp has lived in Vrahassi, a mountain village in Crete, for the past sixteen years. She has been writing poetry for a lot longer. Her poems have been published in magazines, read on the B.B.C. and have won prizes.
