I.
Leaves of crispy gold and red
drift softly from the sky, falling
down to the frozen ground
without a sound,
to shrivel up and die –
II.
The morning wind then scatters them –
They fly unto a hillside creek,
which like liquid glass
flows down to pass
gurgling to the valley floor –
III.
Your scarf's pulled tight against the wind,
thin sheets of snow thy hair caress –
Around your knees
the frosty breeze
makes your gown flow and tease –
IV.
Against the tempests biting you,
you clutch yourself and shuffle on –
Your high heels click
on old red brick
as you walk thro’ the early pale dawn –
V.
Your sultry gossamer softly flows,
the Bathurst streetcar clanking goes –
We meet, I stroke
your button'd coat,
and taste your lips that taste like snow –
VI.
Today we’ll travel north aways,
t’eschew this lonesome city day –
Alone at last,
long hours will pass:
within a cabin we shall stay –
VIII.
As sweet as apples blooming ripe,
as warm as cider flowing thick,
I’ll slip beneath
your chiffon's sheath,
warming myself in thy fire –
IX.
I’ll taste your dew and stroke your legs,
I’ll listen to your smoky sighs –
I’ll watch thee stare
without a care
deep into a mirror of dreams –
X.
We’ll linger 'gainst the cabin wall
and drink our wine in easiness –
We’ll share our heat
(our love so sweet)
all else seems meaningless –
XI.
We’ll share a heavy blanket warm
afore some flickering flames –
We’ll hide away
thro' all this day,
inside in warmth to cozily stay –
XII.
We’ll play sensual games of tender love,
while listening to the old pines sing,
whilst o'er the hill
with feath'red thrill,
geese to the south take wing –
XIV.
I’ll taste your mouth so rosy red,
and whisper in thy ear –
Whilst golden leaves,
from white oak trees
to frozen ground do fall –
Jack Dempster is an Irish-Ontarian folk poet, musician, and editor. His work has been published for Metro Toronto’s Poetry Challenge (haiku), and in journals including Wunderlit Magazine and Juniper. Jack produces Cascadian Art.