An English Love Poem by Steven Cooke

Not a rose, or a lily,
But a buttercup
Languishing in a field of gold,
In some English meadow
Waiting to give herself to him.

That boy with the impetuous smile,
And the eyes of Perseus
That hides a spirit, more delicate than any poet’s heart,
But not from her,
For she is more precious than all the songs of the world,

And I am nothing more than an apple.
Lost in an orchard of charades and folly.
She released me, with her lips,
For she is my English Love

Like the chalk streams of England, giving birth to the May fly
Every day is our love, our lifetime,
I celebrate the nightingale, and the wren,
For their song is our song,
Our home, this England, this love,

For my English love, my soul quivers,
Her glances, our hearts together
Her mouth, her soft voice, her touch,
Rivaled only by our meadow,
Where we first kissed,

Where the swallows flew their dance of love,
And where the pheasants strut in all their majesty
Where we shared our poem of Love
Our love, this love, to share a future
To cherish, our hopes, our joy, our dreams,
To cherish this Earth, this Life

For this is my dream,
And I bear my soul to this quest.

I do not care for life’s baubles, nor do I crave fame,
I am not in ore of Beauty, for it is shallow,
A dream, which will haunt the fickle
My love is for you.

Kept safe, among the fields of gold,
Safe in our English meadow,
Waiting for the sun, to seed our love once more
For she makes me more,
Than, I am meant to be
And my poem of love I give to you.