A Place for Conversation

our feet feeling the springing of heather;

or by a gate, backs pressed against the bars,

a sweet horse nuzzling our heads,

perhaps a woodland full of sharp green scents,

running acorns through our hands,

a seashore, where we'd lean against the rocks

heavy with time, full of their ancient history.

I think we'd speak of art, religion, poetry,

philosophy and science and arcane matters,

of the sun and stars and moons, the universe,

of mysteries unsolved or still unknown.

A long purple shadow might fall across the hill,

the horse, tiring, wander away to graze.

A serrated gleam, eye hitting, through the trees,

the tide, rising, surging soft along the shore.

Then, perhaps, you'd gently take my hand,

and we would speak of love.