The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

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He believes her to be beautiful beyond compare

She knows him to be as slow as a brain-dead hare

He believes she is a goddess wrought in alabaster

She knows him to be a servile fool under a master

He believes her to be witty, brighter than the sun

She knows him to be one with brains next to none

He believes her to be as precious as the furthest star

She knows him to be as dumb ...

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They can now breed blue roses, and breed blue violets too;

Horticultural references don’t quite fit the array of hues.

Yet they are not concerned with, perhaps never knew

Of the silent ones whose spouses leave them black and blue.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/14/happy-valentines-day/

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