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