Breasts
are bubbles, rising from marshlands.
As they gently swelled and blossomed
at due season, at Time’s edge,
I watched over them in amazement.
Never speaking to anyone else
they are with me always
singing
of quiet sorrow
of love
of ecstasy.
They have never forgotten
to enthuse the seed-beds
of all my changing seasons.
At times of penance
they struggle and strain;
and at the thrust and pull of lust
like the proud ascent of music
they stand erect.
From the press of an embrace
they distil love; from the shock
of childbirth
milk, flowing from blood.
Like two teardrops,
which cannot be wiped away
when love is thwarted,
they fill, and they overflow.