There you are
my Song of Songs,
simple as winter lilac
spilling over the lip
of old cranberry glass,
hidden minor
in the melodic key
of my tempranillo
indulgence.

As oceans of possibility
become the catalyst
for a Winsor haze,
an open canvas
of artistic surrender,
let me dream
your bright Chilean nights,
climb the Andean slopes
to the shoulders of the world,
cross its foothills end to end
to hear your voice
that sang of wood and love
as you passed my way.

Perhaps you’ll come again
like the moth in first flight,
or crème brûlée
with its sugar-crisp crust
on the tip of my tongue,
or like sudden rain
that arrives in the blue hour
just before dusk.



Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet
1904-1973

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...