Valleys . . . .

valleys, before me
lying open like a woman
giving
receiving
unfolding towards distant skies
with a certain charm
of elemental
vulgarity.

i walk forward
with the same confident
lust
as of the suckling's eager hands
on his mother's breast
and it is mine
all of it
each rise and fall
each mound and groove
each crevice
each erect countour, rising
like taut nipples
each bush
that bristles like pubic hair
all mine.

i am overpowered
by this sense of possession
as i sit here and write.
but soon
i see this shepherd walking by
staff in his arm and his flock before him
grazing
on her flesh
and i know
the valleys can never be mine
fori am just the passing lover
and he
the eternal
child.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . paul mathew