The pockets of my heart
admit no coin, the silent folds
wherein I keep love’s promissory
notes are not for prying fingers
sewn nor bribe, long after purchase
sought and turned away.
Whate’er I thought and did
when love had seemed to turn
his back is of no consequence
to what I hold and trade and
credit well today. My heart
no ledger keeps, but neither will
she stand, a little match girl
shivering, in cold and wind
when open arms and crackling
fire wait at home to kiss these
hands and warm the bottled
ink I bought in Christwell’s
High Street shop and
carry in my pocket
just for you.
~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
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Brilliant!! A warming fire, in a colding season. I envy the specific recipient of your ink but am glad it is written boldly enough here for it to warm the cockles of my heart as well. Love poems suit you well.
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Aww, thanks, Russel. The “specific recipient” knows better than to keep my words to himself…gives me any grief, I would just don my antlers, coat of wintergreen and wander off. 😉
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