In A Bland Bed Of Bare Bones

The climax in Amsterdam eclipsed
the sun while the one in Heidleberg
came quiet at close of night – rather
like a shy kiss to greet a rosy dawn.

Luzern was grey until bursting flames
consumed an endless mountain view,
not once, but twice, and you glowed
with translucent heat in the tips of your
fingers and you walked on winged feet.

In Paris the bells rang at Notre Dame,
creshendoed with the upwelling
passion scarcely concealed in the
flush of your breast and sparkling eye.

But dour London took no heed
of your past attainments nor
attesteted your evidentiary needs;
in a bland bed of bare bones we
rattled the cups for no just returns.
© 21 September 2007, I.D. Carswell