Honour

Honour the great fallen wall that edged, in golden splendour, our coupling and three standing horses from Arabia.

Honour these horses that stood breathing warm scented spring air beneath gumtree as I kneeled over fallen stump and you leant over teenage torso

Honour the rising trees that blossomed in early November the month of the death, the month of the citrine and the month of Guy Fawkes. 

Honour we who turned the colour of the night from blue to black to golden-yellow and the stars above that swished back and forth as the wind stirred their constellations

Honour the grasses, tall and green, stalking and reaching as though in Africa, hiding prey and predator, hiding our naked reason from the cars and their headlights that sped along the still warm road

Honour the crickets that sung their own Mozart, their own Tosca and Suites of Phillip Glass, honour them for providing the chorus of our love making- the symphony of our own Red Rocks.

Honour the first time that I felt the brilliant pain of a man's weight fall on me as I pushed back and the slipperiness become warmer with every thrust

Honour the switch as the wind blew amongst the blade like leaves of the trees and I found myself groaning, arms reaching around cupping the still sweaty symmetry. 

Honour the end, of the beginning, my start, when the night air was warm and my energy lay on you and on the ground- and still does.