Lovers walk the park,

dance close-but-chaste

at the foot of the hill.

Mated doves fly together,

seeking just the right place,

the spot meant for their nest.

Lying on the grassy slope,

you fell asleep, smiling, sighing

in whatever dream you found,

comfortably safe in my arms,

comforting me to dream as well,

safe for now in my own stormy sea.

Distant laughter brought me awake,

my left hand draped on your breast,

not your shoulder, where I’d left it.

My cheeks flushed, I tried to move,

only to have you look at me and smile.

Dream or not, in the moment, the same.

(after the circa-1990 painting, “The Lovers Dream (in the style of Marc Chagall),” by John Myatt)