THRU THE BRAMBLE

The water babbles secretively,
Tumbling across worn stone
As it has done for time beyond remembrance,
Imparting its wisdom to the glen
In steady flow.
And she approaches the edge cautiously,
The mountain breeze stirring her short, dark locks
In a breezy, flirty, sudden caress.
Sending a brief, tingling chill down the fine line of her spine,
Her thighs.

And as he silently watches,
Hidden among the laurel and gooseberry bramble,
He sees her nostrils flare wide
Perhaps from his own sweaty perfume.
An odor or anxiety and fear,
Bound within desire,
Saturated with pure male pheromone as his lust continues to increase from her arrival.

With a quick look covering 360 degrees
She slowly lowers the straps of her halter
Shrugging off its encumbrance in a fast efficient move
And then starts to methodically unbutton her jeans
One,
Two,
Three,
And then the last as she steps lightly away from the bundled blue,
Standing in coffee coloured wisps,
Satin glistening......lace peeking shyly
In the late afternoon sun.

And suddenly freed of the weight of both cloth and the day,
She raises her arms high
And stretches.
Sinews relaxing, melting,
Back arching in a delicate, satiating pull.
Letting her face go smooth, slack,
Glorying in the feel of her muscles
Releasing the tension and pain of another long day,
And basking in the warm feel of the sun kissing her body
In delicate worship.

Then, in a practiced twist and pull, the bra is suddenly gone,
As she steps forward and with a tug down
Steps out of the satin and into the waiting wet
In one fluid, graceful movement.
Done before the flash of breast and buttock
Could even register on his startled brain.
But thank God for the noise of her splash and laughing gasp,
As he expells his held breath in a ragged cough.
Struggling mightily to cover and muffle in his armpit
As he holds his face tightly there, till his breathing is even and quiet.

But when he raises his eyes again to the light-dappled glen,
He feels his chest clinch tight.
As his body freezes solid
At the sight he beholds.
There she stands
Hair wet and streaming, dripping.
Head flung back as the sun makes love to her body
Heating her perfect alabaster skin,
Covered in goose bumps from the cold, mountain pure water.
And in profile he could see
That the cold water had served well her supple skin,
Smooth and wet,
Glistening bright
Shining eerily from a sheen of water
That magnifies her rose-colored beauty tenfold
A magnet to his eyes.

And regardless that she was being devoured
With a lover's gaze,
She loses herself in the moment.
Settling into a soft mossy cleft
Where the crisp, clear water can flow freely
Over and under
Her sun warmed skin.
The sudden flush of cold the perfect counterpoint
To her heated body and soul,
Stretched to breaking by another day afoot
In a cold, cruel world.
And the call of a whip-o-will rings clear
Answered by its mate
In the sacred circle of life,
So close to the surface
In her secret glen.

And as he watches her eyes close
Her face relaxing into a picture perfect
Mask of tranquility and peace,
He wonders again, for the twentieth time or so.
Just who this short, dark haired Venus might be...
And how she has found his own sanctuary.
And why he was unable to confront her,
Speak,
Tell her that she is trespassing
On land his family has owned for a hundred years.
Not that ownership meant possession
In such a natural, sacred place.
At least not to him
For his heart runs to a more pure nature
As he recognized the holy reverence she holds
For this spot of heaven come down
That he knew instinctively
Belongs to her now, as much as him.

And once again, he witnesses the ritual
As her hands slide from breast to belly
From leg to thigh
From excited touch
To long, slow heated stroke
From teasing tweak
To delicate, soft tender regard
And unable to resist the contagion
His own hands have their own symphony
As he follows the slow arpeggio opening
Slow harmonic rhythm giving way to intensity
As his own crescendo follows her own
And they both give vent to the outer world
The explosive eruption of their inner
In uninhibited release.

And as she slowly allows her soul to return
To her body once again
She reaches for her journal to write
The last part of a ritual
Begun three weeks ago
When she stumbled across this hidden grotto.
And pen to paper she spills her heart
In the only manner she knows
As an artist and a poet
Truth turned to word turned to history
In a process of old.

" I saw him today....again. And as before, he never spoke. Only watched.with a look of such tender regard that my heart melted anew. And I wonder, diary. Does he know that when I close my eyes, it is his arms I visualize holding me tight? Does he know it is his lips I imagine on my breast? And his body I feel push into mine? I think so, diary. I think tomorrow I will end this charade. And pull him into my arms for real, for real. Yes, diary. I think it will be tomorrow."

terry