A night of sifting rain
across the mountain crest;
the lampshade casts a muted
saffron cone; in this wide
bed alone I'm conscious
of a friendly host of lovers
who have gone before and left
no trace - except this faint
sensation, warmth that moves
across my face, along my limbs
more tenderly than lips or finger-
tips, to pass without resistance
through the saffron safety-zone
of light and linger at the threshold,
comforting, incorporeal:
the ghost of joy within these walls
that eddies gently in my dreams,
so that I wake in peace and grace,
and never quite alone.