THE TRYST
I'm reposting this, because it got accidentally deleted. THE TRYST We sat in our favourite place, on that rough hewn stone: hard by the willow tree, that cast dappled shadows over us, and the other stones about that place. She had looked wan and pale of late: fragile and ephemeral. But now there was a fresh bloom on her cheek, and her lovely eyes were lambent with the light of love, and of anticipation. Her lips met mine; sweet as honeysuckle; light and gentle as the caress of butterfly's wings;... Sign in to see full entry.