Richard Allen Beevor

(23 March 1949 / London)


The child awakes, the day it breaks,
as sunlight fills the room,
the fire has burned, the night has turned,
so silent in the tomb.

Here we lay before the hearth,
our bodies hot and bare,
the loving over, the sweat that mingles,
in dark dishevelled hair.

The feeling you arouse in me,
senses you inspire,
the part of me that stands erect
and you urge ever higher,
to know the wonder of our love,
to hope that it will last,
to play the role which we are given
the stage on which we are cast.

Remember the house
each sweetly scented room,
gathered safely from the night
of murk and ghostly gloom,
four walled surround
of unencumbered living,
charity in the home
of softly sensual being.

Beneath this roof
the bird of sacred sanctuary,
the lovers nest
that welcomes home the worldly weary.
We understand the hopes we share,
almost now content,
the days that pass into the night,
with all passion spent.

The child awakes, the day it breaks,
as sunlight fills the room,
our fire has burned,
our bodies joined,
and flood life into your womb.

Submitted: Sunday, April 20, 2014

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