Of being English


When I close my eyes
And kiss your lips
I hear the winds
Of Uffington Castle
Singing in my ears
And the White Horse
Of Oxfordshire
Dances behind my eyelids
Hooves pounding in my heart
As the unmistakable taste of
An Englishman
strong on my lips
Each time I kiss you
Open your eyes
Show me your colours
Whatever you may say
Stop fighting me
Lay down your sword

Let go of
Your strength
Love yourself
And love me
Don’t give away
Your nationality
Don’t give away
Together we are bound
By the heartbeats
Of our fair England
For Cross of St George
And my Englishman
My fire burns


Strong emotions. This was what rages in Karin as she rails against her husband.

The fierce passion and the infinite tenderness between Karin and her husband:

You and I. Your hands as they cup my face, clumsy and rough like a schoolboy’s. No finesse. The initial kiss, too. No finesse. Just raw, male hunger. So greedy. Pressing of your lips hard against mine, fingers steadying my head for your onslaught. Your eyes hungry and impatient. Like a schoolboy’s. Where is your cleverness, your 44 years?

You utter my name. All your longing in one exalted syllable. No love or tenderness. As if hating yourself for not understanding your compulsion to be inside me more than any other woman in the world, for being driven to get on the plane to fly 6,000 miles to be with me.

And then your breathtaking tenderness. When it comes, it wipes away all my anger. How can I ever be angry with you? No man has ever loved me like this.


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