Purple Evening
I breathe you in as we kiss.
Your hair smells of moor
The tang of peat.
Fresh.
Of the heather, wildness.
The close purple of evening
Slowly creeps across the sky.
We take each others hands
And slowly walk into the moon.
The becks sound a watery serenade.
We seem float on the early mist
Which rises as the earth loses heat,
But we are warmed by our love.
Insulated from the chill, content.
April 2009
P H Brookes Copyright 2011
poem by Paul Brookes
Added by Poetry Lover
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