Ode to an Englishman

There is but one who inspires such flowery prose,




my one and only wine 
red Englishman rose.

Like an opera of old played on modern stage,




our love echoes through time, 
bound not by age.

It crosses the sea to lap at distant shore;




waiting on turn of tide to have 
two keys, one door.

Old towns we once wandered, doubt haunting each step;



 
mountains of ice we have stood on, 
him feeling inept.

But me, I was melting, my eyes soon dammed rivers of tears,




as a last day without flaw lit fires
to cold fears

Whispers of love and hints of regret,




but we both forgot 
to  
 remember 
why we'd 
choose
to forget.

So the end of our line proved it a circle




and all what came before 
naught but rehearsal.

Swiftly our hearts beat, all laws now our own;




the new reigning King and Queen of
York on their Tudor throne.

The questions I pose to the deck of the Tarot,




with each passing day continue 
to narrow.

No longer do I seek to learn "who",




who is ascertained, but "when" 
I ask anew.

The picture of patience albeit wearing thin,



like a lime waiting for its 
tonic and gin.

My Englishman’s stem is not without thorn,




but each drawn droplet of blood,  
fresh dew by the morn.

And in the burn of his love my soul does steep,




so his balming arms, the sure aim for 
my faith’s blind leap.

Alchemist's Pen