The Wet Season

The wet season brings
The surging two metre swell
Out of the coastline
Into our consciousness
Fingertips through hair
Navels entwined
Picasso’s minatour comes to mind
Down and forward in long shuddering bursts
Till the obvious is opviated
And we rest in harmony on the floor
Our dark sweaty locks blending
With eastern patterns.
When I spent my days away
I never realised it could be this way.
Now like a feral weed
Plumed from the storm water
I’ve crossed from suburbia into the bush
Now when I observe every curl on your head
A sensual life all of its own is developing.
I who am usually so careful to remain free
Am sucked in by the schmutzigness of it all.


(c) Terese Simpson All Rights Reserved

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