April E-Mail

Gerard Rochford

He feels like a donkey in a field,
hanging loose and braying for a mate.
It must be the Spring flowers,
a certain whiff of perfume in the air
he's breathing in; a recipe for searching
that's tingling his tongue
and spreading all its messages around.

But she's away and not in touch,
out of sight yet filling up his mind.
She's sleeping on a boat; he's all at sea,
with thoughts of entering harbour
from the swell. She unaware, he flagging
adolescent semaphore; the signals
for 'I want you' rising into space.