​On this old terrace
The muses harp
Full of mystery
Like winds from far away
The sounds of lamentation
Begin and bewail
Licking on the garden wall
Ivy dreams and remembered feasts
When my young lover
Streamed across the golden hills
Blossoms in the air
His body glistening
In the midday sun.
Now aching like a drowning god
These naked strings
Pluck remembrance
And the melancholy threads
That draws my heart
As one long bow
Besieged with desperate longing;
And then
The soft born wind expires
Its perfume lingers
Near the deep red rose
That shakes its weathered leaves
And drapes its wounded petals
Across my naked feet
​



Gar Jones – September 2015
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