Gert Strydom (03 April 1964 / Johannesburg, South Africa)
Sometimes there were days when the sun
hang hot in the summer afternoon
while carefree we could lay next to each other
with the fragrances of jasmine, gardenia
and lavender swishing in on the hot wind.
Sometimes there were days where we could hear
turtle-doves cooing in the great old acacia tree,
how the wind chimes on the porch
jollily played the refrain of the wind
when we lay together and looked at each other.
Sometimes there were days that your fingers
were in mine pressing my hand on your breast
while your auburn hair (sometimes naturally blond) were spread over my chest,
while you looked with the fire of passion moments long at me
before gently for an eternity we melted into each other.
Sometimes there were days when thunderbolts came down outside,
when scared the dogs fled into the house
when we could smell the rain
could see how the wild wind goes jerking through the rose trees
but over us a peaceful rainbow kept hanging.
Tranquillity, a deeper kind of rest was everywhere
and the garden was beautiful like Eden,
the noise of the city was somewhere far away
and when you loved me with all of your love
moments and days were happy, good and right.
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