As you were long ago, raven-halo’d.
Remember the night our passions
played discordant notes,
you in major, I in minor chord ?
Thoughts elsewhere, my fingers stroked
and plaited through your hair. Quiescent,
you embraced a heavy honeyed slumber.

In wild crescendo of the sunrise
my slit-eye privately admired your new coiffure.
Fluffy clefs encircled your sleepy face.
I longed to play with each motif teneramente.
But spreading our burnt toast with laughter
I watch my morning glory, semi-Rasta’d lover rush . . .

‘Hey! Mister,’ your class guffawed, con brio, ‘your
hair’s all in little tiny plaits, real cool.’

Today the curls are shorn, a tight cap stitched
with silver filaments, neat and very suitable.
But, Mister, I think your hair is still real cool.