A desire births, tender in touch yet robust in passion, and exudes as the unfurling heady jasmine with lusting reach.
It grips into my core as a hand of spirit extending from a mist into my plume of orange and green and snatches my heart. A flick of a twist and it locks in. The stronghold is immovable, a monolith rooted from sky to earth.
A piquant potion drip feeds to nourish a bed of barren. It grows to a lush rainforest of moss and thick bonding roots where compassion and honour oozes in a soothing stream of silver, shaded under flourishing, pooling umbrellas of shelter.
Yet a starkness lingers, a tugging at my quill. Perched among the flock where loneliness reverberates, I wallow and flutter and chortle and fluff … a forest of fertility, a savanna of vast, harsh dry, I’m desolate and confused in the staccato of dark and light. Fatigued.
In rickety poise, I fight against the strain of damning knots and whirring winds until I succumb to an orchestral string of sweet magnetic harmonies balanced between the poles, serene … yet jarring in the shadows.
It opens. And snaps shuts. It draws near. Then runs. The cries begin as a rain shower and gather to a downpour of screeching squawks.
There’s no consoling. Equilibrium is lost.
Only a crescendo that ebbs and peaks as a million African lovebirds startled in a frenzy chaos of flight … erratic and manic.
To dance into your shoulder among the forests and savannas, to snuggle and preen under dappled light of sprinkling sprays.
To frolic free, to cosy in our cavities of trees and cacti, as the lovebirds we are.
On every bough the birds heard I sing,
With voice of angels in their harmony;
Some busied themselves birds forth to bring;
The little coneys to here play did hie. ~ ‘The Parliament of Fowls’, Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1343-1400)