Victrix Poem by Christopher Shepheard

You sat, the victrix of my escapade,
The spoils upon your lap; a programmed scrolled
From fiddling, an empty box. I had,
I thought, enough of fight to have emerged
With plunder fit to lay before a queen —
Contended figments of an evening flown
Too fast for thought, some fragments of a scene
But hardly noticed, since your hand had lain
So close to mine I felt the warmth commune
Through coruscating air, but feared to touch,
Lest my impatience presuppose too much.

(1984)