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Alan Morgan

of

Mas Canet, France

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Alone

by

Alan Morgan

Dawn.
Cool,pink,tender air
caressing everywhere my weary body.
I sense
My lover has gone.
Already I miss the first, hot touch
of our waking.
Outside?
Outside birds are singing,
insects stirring
A day is coming.
Stretching lazily,
I feel my heart throbbing,
With longing.


I Remember

by

Alan Morgan

I remember when I loved a girl and never knew it;
'till one afternoon she ran forever,
and wed another.
And I, young fool, in rage went to some distant country.
Now, forty years have passed and she
is in me still.
The smell, the taste, the eyes:
Ah yes those eyes.
I can still recall those eyes.
Brown, I think. Yes.............
Hazel brown.
And that pale face.
All lost so quickly one careless afternoon.

In the Sweet Time

by

Alan Morgan

Today,
Walking through fresh mountain air,
In the sweet season of spring.
I came across fields of wild orchids.
And the delight of their dancing charms,
the vivid greenness of new life,
reminded me of my true love.
And I wept tears of gratitude:
feeling once more that joy
which moves within me
As she moves.

Brown Sugar

by

Alan Morgan

Looking at you, the other day,
quietly relaxing in a low armchair.
One leg tucked carelessly underneath the other.
And that long black hair, falling free for once;
I thought once more how beautiful you are.
Your graceful stillness broken
by expressive movements of your long dark eyebrows
and the glow, within those chestnut eyes,
as they fill with laughter.
Around you air sparkles.
So when you left
the magic went too.
And I trembled at the sudden change
as life became an empty wilderness again.

Loyalty

by

Alan Morgan

Those gentle lines upon your face
remind me of times past;
when you stood by me.
While none would lift a finger.
Your firm hand, resting on my shoulder,
whilst looking weaker people in the eye.
Your honest face, full of laughter, at disaster.
Pain eases as you age:
But memories linger.

Together

by

Alan Morgan

Shall we paint,
you and I,
portraits ?
To remember, one another by.
Then lie them face to face
in a private sunny place,
to dry.
Tomorrow
we should find mixed paint,
stuck fast.
So I am you and you are me.
Perhaps part of me will always be in you
and part of you in me.

Softest of Tongues

by

Alan Morgan

With the softest of tongues we love
each tender place;
Quivering in awe
at the beautiful rhythm of our music.
Even stones sigh
when we fly.
And afterwards.
There is the scent of you.
The longing for you; and that
Oh so exquisite ache of
knowing that
I must have you again.

Fifty four

by

Alan Morgan

Walking;
Just driftin,
in the cool morning air.
With that slow, confident, salsa swaying swagger
of one who has loved too well.
Pausin, only to wipe a lazy tear from
a sated blue eye.
Totally absorbed;
tingling again.
As those clever fingers of her lover
play a Chopin Polonaise upon her spine.