My Medea

Upon the night my dearest lady strides
And in her eyes the day of yearning dawns.
Upon a gilded chariot she rides
Borne aloft by seven silver swans,
Robed in words of sweetest conjuration,
Naked desire clothed in spirit's gown,
Each every breath commanding admiration,
Each hallowed thought a jewel within her crown.
Catch if you will the fragrance of her hair
The scent of lilacs blooming in the spring
And ripe strawberries vended at the fair
Whose tender essence to her skin does cling.
Dear lady, how I fain thy heart would woo!
Does thy chariot hold a place for two?

George Chadderdon © 1993