Poets Come Of Age Poem by Chris Zachariou

We talk of poets and white doves till sunrise
blushing anemones, chilled juice
and ice-cream and mother's apple pie.

A green wind is blowing.
Green like the freedom of the pines
and strange like the words
the poetess whispered to the sea.
Lime scent and cinnamon grow on our lips
and Artemis and Pan crave our youthful day.

The profundity of such curious poetry moves her
and she plunges into our scarlet whirlpool
until we cry out in joy and the blushing anemones
languish in a vase in your pink and white bedroom.

For many days she travelled on the river
escaping to the abandoned caves of the sea.
Incredulous, I searched for her till dawn
but never found her and her story was told to no one
still a mystery to me and to all her other lovers.

Each night I ask you to recite my poem
but you laugh at me and say it's no longer
avant-garde to have a melancholy soul.
Your words are like arrows
and not the balm of blossom you once promised.

You, who has the wisdom of the horizon in her eyes
where is the blossom that stroked your thighs in March?
Where is the blossom that kissed your eyes in April?
Will spring blossom dance on your breasts again in May?

You mock me and tell me I'm depraved
but then you warm me in your Reynaud's mouth
until I chant a prayer in your pomegranate dawn;
and even though you tell me I'm a man who is flawed
I will never ask for your forgiveness
or beg for absolution from your sainted mother.