Dark Night's Cold 1974 Poem by Terry Collett

She's spread there,
Dalya, legs
set aside,

in the tent
that we share,
lying there

in dim light,
her soft fruit
on offer,

the two small
melon breasts,
her dark fig

waiting for
me to push
plough or kiss.

There's music
from speakers
blaring out

in the camp,
voices calling
from other

tents nearby.
I engage
her beauty,

handle fruits
of melons,
open up

the dark fig
(not apple)
enter in,

plough her trench
with fine skill
without sense

of time's clock
or moral scorn,
just us here

making love
in tent's hold
keeping out

dark night's cold.