The Watcher From The Beacon Poem by Peter Alan Soron

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

clothes are uncommon stubborn, they always are, and so the quicken step slows in awkward style until garments can be more economically divested and then, laying cold on white purity, feeling chests can heave but to no heartbeat, just heat for noble friends, so beautiful, tight limbs grab in battle, sweat, pushing, pulling, dejection, egotism

self, fallen pride wet in rained-out trenches, mindful of what ought to be, but little caring beyond the general order, sitting watching from the beacon, far-high, overlooking the writhing hills, no love at all in this passion