Advent, day seventeen
She was a virgin, or so they say.
Bishops have been cursed from the pews for suggesting otherwise.
But the remarkable part of the story we focus on today is the virgin’s husband, who, believe it or not, loved her anyway.
A twist of hair breaks free from the binding
Flicks a lovely cheek –
Blushed as it is by the hard sunlight
And specked with road dust
– a sudden breeze sets it dancing
It is all too soon
I am not yet used to softer things;
The nape of her neck, the heady smell of her
Like earth after spring rain
And she, all but weightless in my arms
She shifts in the saddle, moans gently
I start towards her, but despite myself,
Heart-heavy from the bulge of her
This flesh of my flesh
Seeded by some other
So I take the reins and walk on
But wherever she goes
I go also