Love by the campfire: A poem 

The late yellow moon still haunts the skies 

Above the cumulus clouds, it solemnly lies 

in its inertia, like a tethered swaying boat 

In this convalescent glow, her ideas float 

The night cops are wizards conjuring order 

Like all-seeing stars in the silent city further 

Above the black hills that are bare of even a tree 

silhouettes of ghosts hang, haunting the country 

She casually takes the blowing wind on her nape 

The crackling woodfire burns the tail of her cape 

She sucks in the air between breaks like a vape 

And her voice grows louder when nothing’s at stake 

Then she talks of civilisation, politics and wars 

of poverty, spirituality and poetry of course 

Against her slim breasts, her heaving arms hop 

And when the subject is love she doesn’t stop 

But this poetry is no fountain, but a deep and dark well 

There’s history repeating, a tide ebbs after a swell 

And it is only a rite, her considered right and her art 

For it is customary for her to break all their hearts