The Young At Night Poem by Emma Atkinson

Fingertips, like spiderwebs, touch,
Soft in the pale glow of the moon,
Where between them lie a thousand sparks,
And distance is broken none too soon.

Smiles, linked like paper streamers,
Paint shy laughter in the din,
Where dance the young, the dreamers,
Soft, with opal eyes, and bold with shots of gin.

Bodies winding like spiraled glass,
Roll like the waves and crash against the floor,
Or run, hands linked, to lie on the moonlit grass,
Where they gaze up at heaven's door.

Lips red as summer cherries,
Part like a field of poppies, pushed aside by another's touch,
Soft, like the sleepy river that carries,
Under the current, a heady rush.