The Stuff of Dreams
Darkness fell; settled over our tent
surreptitiously, like a sleek, black panther
stalking its prey. Crept up on us, unawares,
as dusk does in deepest Dartmoor.
Evening was a windless, warm affair –
the kind of night storms are born of.
The sky was as clear as a bell. Sirius
overhead; green red, blue – shimmering.
We bedded down, side by side – decided
to read for a while. Mine, a steamy love affair
and his, ‘a how to light a campfire – put up
a tent without it falling down’, kind of job.
The candles flickered. Wax tears ran down
the Mateus Rosé bottles in which they stood.
I must have drifted off. The next I knew, felt
his hand brush my foot – a velvet touch.
He continued … moving upwards, ever up…
His fingers, soft on my breasts, like never before,
with a tenderness I could only have dreamt of.
What had rekindled this passion – long-since
smouldering, to suddenly spring alive? Must come
camping more often – this, our first time.
His fingers slip between my thighs. My flesh,
yielding to his touch; malleable – moist. A ripe
Arabian fig. His, and his alone, for the gorging.
My moans grow louder – emerging from unknown
depths; my throat aching in exquisite agony.
All my inhibitions, unleashed! What did it matter?
There was no one to hear me, only the sheep.
“Maureen! For Pete’s sake watch out! You’re
about to squash them! My spectacles, I mean, love.
I’ve been searching for ages, afraid to wake you.
Sorry, pet. It’s OK. Found them now. They slipped
off my nose. Of what were you dreaming do you suppose?”
“Dreaming? Them weren’t no dreams, tiger. Come on!
Don’t stop now … feed those flames. Ignite my fire!”