I saw my lady looking out today from her bedroom window, a rare glimpse of her auburn hair in the morning sun.
I dream of walking with her in the gardens, holding hands and laughing at the Herms that stand guard over the threshold. I wonder long about why she spends all day now in siesta. Did I see her unclothed behind the shutter there?
I long to climb, to enter her chambers, stealing in through the moonlight, creeping past her sleeping maid and creaking open her cedar door. I wonder what she’d do, when I woke her. Would she recognise my face from her dreams, or from those merest of glances exchanged as I pass by her gate twice each day?
For now I’ll watch, just watch, for sometimes touching a dream is akin to sullying a fresh spring with a drop of blood.
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