Peter Alan Soron Poems

Into the cold night winds
Blow the sultry seeds of confusion
Into the freezing breeze of winter’s dawn
Go the thoughts of a man forlorn
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Eyes undress long before fingers tinker with buttons, clips, belts or zips, clawing their way through blouses, dresses, jeans or skirts. A bed creaks in anticipation even when innocents sit in non-descript chatter, small talk continuing unabated before the curtains and the unclosed shutters – no-one shouts, just whispers, hints

and when lips caress and tongues do push apart in carnal flutter, thoughts remain alert controlling touch so as to find that lock to be unlocked, that stone to be gently rocked, that trigger to be lightly –sprung
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