Ingrid Collins

What care I, in knickers of red?
I’ll give him breakfast tea in bed.
Hibble hobble hibble, hibbledie head.

Behind manifestation there are strewn
Existence-cosmic templates, intertwined
Pattern on pattern, potential lives on lives,
Precursors sacred in Immortal Plan.

In my husband’s dark brown eyes
Laughter, love, and joy arise.
He is my companion, hero,
Warmth, when the temperature is zero.
He’s compassionate, strong and wise.

In the central
Oriental Collections room
I found him. Golden, serene,
Long fingered hands resting upon his lap;
Eyes, huge, reflecting the Cosmos;
Eyes, focused on infinity.
Oh, his eyes!

“She loved him more than her own eyes,” quoth he,
“For he was gentle.” Furthermore he told
Of their affection pure that held the key
To sacred love, precious to her as gold.

Now, from beneath a rock, the sound
Of a swiftly flowing river,
Tributary of Lethe, ever
Bringing sweet forgetfulness
In dreams. Oblivion’s caress!

Velvet to the tongue,
Come, taste my peaches,
As moist flesh yields sweet warm juices
Merging flavours with wanton,
Whipped, drifting, dreamy, creamy domes.