There is no courser like a page.

The fruits of my revelation, naturally, have not arrived until a fortnight later.

I like writing poems from the perspective of a man. I like writing about moors. I have no idea why I like either of them.

I especially like puns. And I do know why I like them. Subtlety has never been one of my strong points, and when I can find it, I latch on.

I am not pleased with this poem. But it is a jumping point. It is somewhere to start. And I shall improve again, as I did when I first started writing poetry and then...stopped.

History repeats itself.

So,

Wavelength

I walk alone on desert shores
And up atop dry barren moors,
She matches me, each step for step,
And I cannot within the depths
Of her dark eyes, so far away
From the dark waters where I play,
Perceive a glimmer, though the stars
Shine, persistent, and red Mars
Is bright tonight. I cannot call
And hear, returned, a glist’ning laugh.
My pleas are shouts, and not at all
Endearing towards her fragile wrath.
She breaks! So slowly, yet so fast,
I cannot stop the shattered glass
From falling, and into the sea
It floats, dark water’s filigree.
My poor dark soul cannot entwine
The pieces and the sudden frost
That forms across the lovers’ bind
That leaves me on this shore, still lost
And yet so warmly near; the chill
Persists, and I can feel the shrill,
Shrill beating of the living bands
Clenched tightly ‘round her, and her hands
Are shaking, and could I eschew
A glance, perhaps…but I cannot
With dark, dark water on the few
Small threads—my hold so taut.
For if I drop them, let them fly
Like gossamers across the sky
So bright with stars, yet strangely dim,
I never would see them again.
And so I hold, hold tightly.
Sea!
If this be love, than let me be.