Stretching, you tumble back, supple and soft

as a sheet of fresh paper falling lightly;

your voice bears a tingle of the first sea breeze,

breathing gently, in my ear, a new beginning.

And at your touch a force through all my flesh

stings and pulses and wakes.

All my skin shivers underneath your hands.

You wrap me in chillies and milk,

and all my being rises to a slow steady shudder

like an engine throbbing, waiting.

Henna-traced hands spread the flush of their fever,

their perfume, through every pore.

Your hair is dark and washed and wet

and now you unbind it.

Each tress, as it tumbles, uncurls to caresses;

every strand of your hair bears a single star.

You unfasten the girdles of night. Every second

slips its dark gown further from your shoulders —

and suddenly, O shiningeyed bringer of day,

the doors are flung wide, the air fills with fragrance,

your sash falls, luminous, golden —

and then — in a sudden sweep of rose petals —

your wings wrap us both into glory,

just as leaves scatter skywards when a bus flashes by —

and together we fall, through the new-blushing heavens,

into a radiance, resplendent; and all I can hear

is my heart, and the sound of swift horses racing,

as you laugh in the ecstasy of your triumph.

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