Tintagel

 
In yet another pilgrimage
to Arthur’s siring place
I see again the headland and the cove
and I remember then
how you

wide eyed,
upon a blue swirled, cloudless
late September afternoon,
when we had climbed
the castel’s ruined parapet,

the air on fire,
the sea a Cornish cliff-side shattering,

pulled down my face
to yours
to meet your open urgent mouth
and honeyed me
with your desire.

And I remember, too,
how then
time slowed
and all but stopped
as I surrendered gladly to your will.

And now, some forty years away
from that enthralling ambered day
when that one shining moment
from our long ago
is called to mind
it surges longing in me still.