But It Wasn't Chivalry You Were After Poem by Mark Heathcote

I knew you, too, at once felt free
when the wind blew through
your salt-wet raven hair. You felt
newly born when the nightingale sang,
songs to your chambers there.

Wearing nothing but earth-tarred feathers
we mingle and roll in our sins,
we are splayed on our backs, breathless
like two little wayfarer lambkins
on an ivory-moonlit sheet.

You were the she-Wolfe, I a lost shepherd
you were the sunlight's nectar
bound by kisses, dewy substance
and I was your invisible Hector.
But it wasn't chivalry you were after.