The Song of Songs - V. 2.2 (the correct version)

Ah, what a beautiful and sacred place it was!
I walked around it nervously, and then I saw the bar
across the nave and purred myself a 'spritzer' …
Unthinkingly (and by accident), I found myself
to one side, one row behind, to where you were to be.
When you came back to your seat, I was gazing
at the tracery in the choir window;
I tried to get the measure of it, as
I wanted, although without any equipment, to plan how to take a photo of it,
fanatical photographer that I am. I always seem to feel
quite photographically excited in churches; it must be all that
sacred gloom, all that incense in the air …
I saw you smile so sweetly, so reassuringly,
at your friend, as she prepared to speak her chosen words.
I saw your bright, keen eyes, as you turned to her,
and felt the light and texture of your mind;
I saw the gentle, dark awe and curve of your eyebrow
and saw your spirit;
I saw you stifle a giggle
at some oddity of word or event, earlier or later,
and felt your wit.
I explored the readers' meanings, one after the other,
their more naked thoughts and their looking back, the dark crease
between their minds and their spirits, lush codings,
the starts of new ideas, the shapes and hues
of feelings like the dunes
of the Sahara – they had the aura of the other.
But I felt something unquiet inside me – at each expression slightly 'blue' – 'ho hum' I felt the vicar murmur in the growing gloom - .
Was this prudery on my part - some bleak shade of
silent, internal, moral authority?
There was no imagination of superiority though,
as I listened intently, undistracted, to each reading -
it feels now more like veneration or adoration,
purest, gentlest love,
like preparing before the giving of confirmation -
and all beneath the stained glass windows,
red and gold in the light of the setting sun,
by Byrne Jones and William Morris, who
knew a lovely image when they saw one,
in that august and time-honoured place of religion and space.

Finally, we spoke when the 'service' of jubilant and godless readings
were over, and, as chance would have it, yes, you were coming to the pub.
And there, it seemed to take so little time
till we were deep in talk,
and I can see you face-to-face, and start to sense you
heart-to-heart,
and guess the shapes and the moods of your soul
from the movement and perfect shapes of your thought,
from the warm, sweet grace in your manner and air;
but it was about then that things started to go a bit unfocused –
incipient inebriation in me.
We went outside and joined the others, - exalted being,
I
needed to commune with the moon, something to sharpen my increasingly hazy sense of the time and the place I was in.
And, there, it seemed to take so little time
before we were in deep discussion of your plans, and we
determined, agreed, and confirmed,
beyond all shades of a doubt,
that they were, they are, extremely tax-efficient.
And, soon, we had suspected, if not more, or so it seemed!,
that I had three problems, to wit, return,
length of maturation, and capacity for growth (though,
we allowed ourselves to remain somewhat hopeful
on the issue of interest) in my own financial structures.
I'd loved it, when you felt I'd
implied for you a lack of full focus in your
portfolio on stocks and shares (or, whatever I'd seen them called
in the pleasingly pinkish FT – or, was it the heavy-thud Economist?),
and as I tried to
set the matter straight, you said
'Consider the full picture', and it felt like a
warning of the need for a greater breadth
of thought on my part
for your entire financial preparation with a view to retirement needs and estate planning.
Your very slightly bare lower arm– almost near the wrist of your arm, verily – did slightly shiver
in the nightly summer cool, as I saw
from the corner of my eye, my solicitous eye.
And we went inside so that you could be warm,
and the warmth there felt like hugging
up close with one's mother
or some long-lost auntie or granny, snuggling up
together, in a silver-lit room to watch Heartbeat.
As we talked of this and that, and waited
to order two Merlots, and as I enjoyed
the pearl-glow of the lamps above your head
and the shine of the bottles behind the bar,
things in me did start to spin, one spritzer too many, and I needed a breath of fresh air …
Out the front, I saw, more fully than ever before,
the peculiar nature of modern advertising … As I breathed deeply,
the grip of the alcohol not yet starting to fade,
I saw this woman, not entirely dressed, like some Contessa in Italy –
her 'bella figura', her 'alta cultura' -
and how each local guy would stare at her,
this Athenian queen, this Sicilian goddess,
as they walked past with their six-pack of Fosters and bag of Tandoori,
and handy additional little bag of samosas,
and how they would inwardly wilt at not being
the one to kiss her hand,
gloved, half-wrist covering,
at how they could only look at the pout of her mouth,
of their Cenerentola, whereas someone, some lucky one,
could run their Maserati to her front door,
this Cinderella, this first, this last, this only
Cinderella – remembering all those tips, one, two, three …
if not, all four … that they'd boned up on, on the Internet, as to how best to attract the ladies.
When I returned to you, from my thoughts on
the appalling objectification of the female, in so many areas of the contemporary media*, were you still trying to get a drink?!!*****
I kind of intervened, interpolated, you might say
with the bar lady after she'd served this gent and
he'd drifted away, with huge quantities of beer,
all gay with the prospect of consuming such vast amounts of alcoholic beverage,
and you widened your dark, bright eyes,
as if to say, 'you seem a bit unsteady' or
'I'm not sure I like it – are you a bit squiffy?'.
bu then you smiled like the moon on the sea,
while I creased the horizon of my brow,
anxious you might have noticed from the corner
of your eye something of the emptiness of my
sudden cash-flow-crisised wallet..
And then, fortunately, it was closing time,
and we went to see the sea.
And we discussed whether I should hit
some cashpoint in the face, for refusing, so jealously,
to give what is Barclaycard's unto me.
As we passed some Italian deli
in the vivid display of shopping and clubbing,
having clarified that all the menfolk
unfailingly adored the perfection of line
in your singing arts – but, of course, my sweet –
as you gently slipped your hand in round my arm,
so silently and demurely,
and I pressed it lightly into me,
to show you my demure affection,
'Let's go for a paddle!' you murmured,
to the profoundest interest and agreement
of our friend, already planning
how best to keep track of our easily misplaced shoes and pop-scoks.
I did not know your name, then,
but waited till you would finally utter it to me,
and then, so much later, I played with
how to rhyme to it – perhaps with 'tress',
or 'bless', or 'caress' … or 'mess' – but
I jump ahead.
Revelation,
like silent movement toward fiscal maturation
or solemn, joyful procession to any form
of corporate synergy, all coagulation
should never be rushed, I sense and find,
for,
as with all the most sacred mysteries,
there needs to be time for the heart to be
as claimed as it was, before, unclaimed,
and for the brain to be as stained
as it was, before, (un)clear.

* excluding within ABC Tales, of course!