Not your proud anger me a coward makes,
Nor can your flashing eye or rapier frown
Instil my heart with the cold breath of fear.
Your passion may engulf me, but it shakes
No citadel I claim to call my own ;
It merely serves to make your self more dear.
Tempest of raging words my spirit takes
To set it on a throne, wearing a crown.
A king regaled with songs he loves to hear.
But that which my beleagured barrier breaks
Is the slow tear that wells and brimming o’er
Your trembling lash threads silently your cheek.
Then am I craven, and can do no more
Than fall before your feet, pardon to seek.
Weekly Times 13.7.62