this voice

I knew this scene at once
although I had never been:

The color of the gorse
that wonderfully melting
yellow course beneath which
the land rolls and reels.

The stream she follows,
her bare feet dipping
playfully into the cool
waters that run the meadow.

The distance bothy
beneath silent elms,
roots delving deeply into
a much shadowed past.

I hear as much as see
this gorgeous she plying
smilingly blessings toward
the eager stolid shore,

her teasing tempting hair
brightly reddening across
the bluest sky I have ever seen
between this now and ever more.

Her heart beats meaning
beyond words, beyond time
miming a chorus that only
the truest lovers ever know.

Her lips smiling such a
scintillating rhythm
of hope and desire and need
yet pleading bending not.

How could I not know
this place, this home
and hallowed meadow,
this gently meandering burn?

How could I not know
her eyes – my God, her eyes
and lips lusciously imploring,
her skin sweetly exploring?

This meadow, these waters
and winsome leaves in trees
that pray earnest love
and deeply devoted longing –

this she and we in meeting,
departed yet imparting more
of truth than the distant sea
could ever faltering fix –

for now – this bare moment –
I have heard her warmly speak
and in this breathing voice I know
the precious blissful call

of home.