At the edge of the lake where shadows lay
luster of slate, restive, alone, he waits,
mood tempered by gloom; reflects the gray
the still water the depth at dusk creates.
She should be here by now, this much is clear.
Seeing desire, she couldn’t disguise
the longing light in her own eyes, the tear:
To balk his blunt demand—rueful surprise.
Since he shouldn’t, hadn’t she sought him out
when unsuitable, his (almost) to hold?
Think--hurdles of old--it can’t come about
but their fantasy seized so feelings unfold.
Suddenly there’s a shrill sound—an alarm—
She’s coming!—awaking; breaking the charm.
© Helga Ross 2004, 2008