THE HOODED MAN

 

 

Consciousness was sucked

into the furiously spinning disc,

catapulting me back

to nineteen-eighty-five...

 

You were there.

I could look, but never touch - that

was denied me.

But, oh, how I looked!

How you shone, God-like,

in the eyes of the idolatress,

as you fought your sword fights

across dreams devoid of sleep

where I endlessly fantasised,

breathless with wanting - where

anything was possible.

 

And all others around you

faded away,

their voices silenced.

There was only you

in your Lincoln Green,

arrow poised in your bow.

And I became it's string,

responding to your touch
with paroxysms of rapture: and

just for an instant,

I thought I saw recognition

flicker in your eyes.

Did you really connect

with the chaos of this besotted Soul

from your future,

as you stretched her to capacity

then let your arrow fly?

And were you surprised

that she felt it all

so carnally?

 

Your arrow hit it's mark

in the Greenwood

deep inside me.

And the wounded Oak wept

sticky resinous tears

to the strains of Clannad's

'Robin, the Hooded Man.'

The magic was lost then

in the credits that crawled

slowly up the screen - a

fitting tribute to the death

of blissful reverie,

for I found myself back

in an existence so lifeless

without you.

 

But the afterglow still lingers...


(Photo courtesy of Google Images)