At the edge of the lake where shadows lay

luster-of-slate, or clay, restive, he waits,

mood tempered by gloom; reflects the gray

the still waters 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.

Day breaks. Her figure-8 fills his embrace
just when the alarm clock laughs in his face.

© Helga Ross 2004, 2008, 2019