Winter-moon, bright hole, punched
through to whitelight heavens, only
light. No solid mass of rock and dust.
Chalkboard stripes mark lucid arcs
crosshatched across a blackboard sky,
drained of colour, earth’s cold cover,
patched and mended quilt, white-zinc
to ink and all the shades between.
You shared your plan to take me
in the snow and I, your willing cohort,
artfully attired in mink-grey-fur,
lace stockings, carmine wellies… wait.
You make your way, the whitening sky
weighs heavy-laden, ashy, finally
releasing it’s glittering confetti. First
it covers your path, later our tracks.
Sole sound amidst the deadened silence
I hear you. Lust-flushed, I rush out
to feathery flux, wild chaos swirling.
Embracing. Hands. Skin. Mouths. Hair.
You almost take me there in the deserted
street, legs wrapped round you tightly.
We run riotous, laughing, into the garden,
and make snow angels while we fuck.