Looking back on my aubade, I see it doesn’t qualify as a poem of love and leaving and so I rescind its aubadian classification and put this in its place, knowing full well this too is not exactly what was meant, but I evoke my poetic license to interpolate, extrapolate, obfuscate, insinuate, imitate, expostulate and, in short, write any darn way I please!
PS Love the aubade- I shall linger and revisit …
To Tryst And Trust—But Not Too Much
Dawn flashed green on the windowpane
the larks began to fly
their spiral notes came floating down
like ribbons from the sky.
She’s trying to wake us up my love,
I murmur in his ear,
Good Gaia’s raising Her alarm—
you have to disappear.
Who knows what ill may follow yet
if exposed be we!
Oh hush, my dearest, darling girl
this spot behind your knee
that I forgot to kiss last night,
tastes like the morning dew…
How can this place so far from here
(his fingers dip into
her sweetest spot, now moistening
beneath his gentle touch)
still smell of roses, musk and brine?
you rouse me much too much..
FLEE, FLEE! Beloved troubadour
His foot steps on the stair!
That infuriating snuffle?
I’d know it anywhere.
He throws a final kiss to me
while scrambling cross the sill
but waits to watch me swallow dry
my morning-after pill.
©2015 Christine Irving