Crickets and sprinklers <br />fill the dark with chirping; <br />white arcs of spray <br />are thrown around us, <br />drumming the soaked earth, <br />loud as surf from a quiet sea. <br />and we, chasing moonlight, <br />dance under these arms of waves, <br />escape a drenching, <br />but catch the fine mist in our hair. <br />Scent of cut grass exhales <br />from the still-warm <br />ground in a long sigh <br />with the rising dew, <br />just as your breath near my ear <br />speaks of a long, hot yearning. <br />There is a stirring within us: <br />we are no longer dancing in each others' arms <br />but dancing in each other, <br />resting on the bench at the 8th hole.<br /><br />Lillian Susan Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tryst-on-the-golf-course/
