Mr Darcy

Andante, Mr Darcy, 

while you wait for me from winter, 

the heaven-kissed gaze, 

a part of amber glistens and 

orange storms. 

Softly, my friend, 

on the oaken tred of  

someone else’s name, 

a quiet delight 

away from joyful streams 

sprouting out of crumbling floors 

spotted with daisies. 

Easy - 

Coarse velvet and 

cherry-picking wraith, 

shrunken gaze and lovely 

face, 

esteem me like the 

sweet midnight, 

the dawn of dusk 

white hot polite 

grainy affection. 

Quiet, Mr Darcy, 

take your toponym from 

the table, 

place it in those arms 

and call yourself speckled 

in the moonlight that shines 

peppercorn, silk and damson. 

Forget what curtailed yesterday 

like the thorny afterthoughts 

of blood-red garnets 

and church spires. 

Achy ceremony cools 

my thoughts until they 

acquiesce your shadow. 

Be slow, Mr Darcy, 

because pain is all we suffer 

once our minds are gone.