Romantic love is a fragile thing;
joyous, beguiling, appealingly sweet.
At the first fearful thought it flies away
a trembling bird on a shattered wing.
Frightened away by too much enquiring,
too many questions, best left unasked,
too honestly answered, unwisely perhaps.
In the garden, where once was a breeze
that gently seduced and played with your hair
there now comes a storm that bows down the trees
tugs at the branches and strips all the leaves.
I heard the twigs snapping in two.
We lash the trunk to a stake for the strength.
We discover how shallow the roots are sunk.
Love grows stronger or love lies wounded.
There is no denying the truth.
The lessons of Cupid and Psyche
are as old as the well worn challenging hills.
We wander and wonder
and never will learn not to ask.
I hand you healing as best I can
to conjure the summers return.
A simple concoction of words could suffice.
You didn’t hear me.
You didn’t heed them.
You heard only bad weather news.
Now we don’t talk about love any more.
We lost all our sense of the deeper feeling.
Now the door to my heart is sealed
against storms, real, imagined or fleeting,
by your, oh so kindly said, gentle words:
‘I will always love you, truly, I mean it.
I will always love you my darling one,’
and then, oh, so revealing,
resounding throughout every possible meaning,
that final, heart wrenching