ICE MAN

I wonder how I got here
until sleep amnesia retreats
and I recall that strange night sky

last night, how the aurora borealis
reflected in eyes the colour of ice,
stirring sensual desires;

how I so eagerly took the hand
that led me here
to this Reykjavik hotel room,

knowing every conceivable fantasy
that girlhood dared dream
was about to be fulfilled...




Lying here beside you this morning
in this dishevelled bed,
disbelieving, I'm moved

to run trembling fingers
through your tousled white-blonde hair.
You stir in your sleep

then gradually awaken
to my awestruck gaze.
Smiling enigmatically

you throw aside the duvet
to reveal physical perfection, naked
but for the soft colourless body hair

that last night brushed against me,
electrifying already heightened senses
to the point of no return.




There is so much I want to say
but I cannot speak your language,
cannot tell you how it feels

as you take me again now
to those cosmic heights - and beyond
to utter rapture, where

I'm no longer conscious
of two-day-old stubble
prickling my face;

nor of these two hearts
pounding in unison
as if desperate to become one.

But, then, who needs mere words
when bodies are so fluent
in the art of communion;

so skilled in their own peculiar language
at expressing that most tender of thoughts
'I think I love you.'



And perhaps it's just as well
I cannot voice my irrational fear
that our hot volcanic passion

will melt you like the icebergs
I can see through the window
glistening in the early spring sun.