Beneath the Sycamore

I

We stand beneath the sycamore.

The green tipped buds flick the pale blue skies with eager freshness,
whilst your hair stirs about your face,
Like the grass beneath our feet.

Your eyes glance at me,
Reminding me of frightened birds.

We look to each other, in silence.

Silence is an opportunity then, not a sound.

An opportunity to savour the blossoming affection,
the bud of your mouth proclaims.


II

We stand beneath the sycamore.

The verdant hands wave in the clear warm skies with enthusiastic gaiety,
whilst your hair plays about your face,
like the flowers about our feet.

Your eyes tease at me,
Reminding me of past indulgence.

We smile at each other, in silence.

Silence is a game then, not a sound.

A game of provoking the uncontainable emotion,
your warm mouth unlocks in me.



III

We stand beneath the sycamore.

The browning fingers clutch at the exposed skies with desperate longing,
Whilst your hair wisps around your face,
Like the leaves wisp around our feet.

Your eyes smile at me,
Reminding me of warm summers.

We hold each other, in silence.

Silence is a blessing then, not a sound.

A blessing like our devotion
Your warm cheek grazes mine.




IV

We stand beneath the sycamore.

The empty arms upthrown to the mountainous skies with adulation
whilst your hair curls about your face,
Like my arms curl about you waist.

Your eyes comfort me
Reminding me of hot cocoa.

We love each other, in silence.

Silence is a sound then, not a feeling.

A sound unnoticed in the peal of our hearts,
Imitating my soul like the strike of your kiss.