Robert Rorabeck - The Ancient Lovers

Windmills are calling their men
To the sea,
She who is sashaying unto the
Moon’s sycophancies
The wills are wounded with the
Winding blades,
The rabbits are burrowing for
New bridesmaids:
In the briars of dashing green,
Beneath the echoes of the gurgling streams:
All is quiet as a mute child
Opal trunks twisted and wild,
The lovers holding hands
Walking far from the distance town,
Soon beneath the glowing penumbra
They’ll both lie down:
And confide to each other words
They wish to hear,
And kiss, and kiss in the woods
Amidst the gentle kines and the frightened deer.

Robert Rorabeck

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