Shortened sprigs of sage in auburn hair,
soft coloured green, sweet smelling
and intertwined with heartsease and lavender
in a wreathed diadem sacred to nature.
He gladly danced with his lady.
Their favourite was La Volta from Italy.
Two bodies were close during that one.
Considered lewd by some standards,
but touching turning and tossing
a partner was sweetly teasing.
Harp music dulcimer drifts and voices
of unaccompanied choirs in church
softened them into total tranquility.
Of the nine psalm chants by Tallys
they liked the Third Mode Melody,
and were raised together skyward.
Moonlit walks by reflected rivers on warm nights
of rustling reeds, owl hoots and sweet silences.
Entwined fingers of tightened hands,
brief embraces of closeness in those
invisible moments when Selene
hid behind gathering veils of clouds.
Gone into some twisted time warp
of disappeared experiences, shattered.
Don’t play those harp music melodies.
They torture the memory patterns
and recollected a smashed dulcimer,
destroyed due to former music.
Those past tunes of Thomas Tallys
that lent time to extended eye gazing
have disappeared forever.
Don’t invite him to dance on festive days.
He can’t control the steps and stance.
Potential partners are out of his focus.
His eyes are closed to familiar music.
Don’t include him in social occasions.
He spends hours aggravated, provoked and troubled.
Drinking increases his disturbed state
and small talk irritates, agitates and infuriates.
Don’t recite the poems that they shared.
Avoid the chants now shattered,
of formerly sacred and divine places.
Retreat from that riverbank track,
slash the reeds, pelt the owl, and make
enough noise to drown the silence.
Shredded moments of a lost love
which make no shared memories,
slightly sweet, but try to fracture
a healing heart.