Two men meet in a small corridor, while midwinter occupies their friends, their wives, and potential eavesdroppers elsewhere. They exchange two bits of paper. One is rather fancy, rolled up and sealed in wax, with calligraphy inside. The other is grubby and rumpled, blotched with puddles of ink and untidy, energetic scrawl. They smile, and share a swift kiss.
"Happy midwinter."
"Happy midwinter."
Then they read.
Let us walk, you and I, amid gardens of flower,
let us fly, my love, through the sky like doves,
or be fish in a stream, currents rippling above,
then return to the earth for love and rest in our bower.
Among knights of the realm there is none more courageous,
but with me you lie soft. As I run my fingers up your thigh
you turn sweet and warm as a blueberry pie.
The tables turn, the fierce knight emerges; as a lover thou art outrageous
Your soft brown curls, thine eyes like pearls,
the sight of thee burns in my spirit like fire.
I melt and I sigh, your touch makes me swirl
through space, going high, up and up to the top of the spire.
Though our goodbyes are often and we must be discreet,
for my love and my heart no one else can compete.
Nice
Enraptures my enthusiasm
Admirable
Lovely
Affectionate
Nosegay (jolly as a)
Object of my
Fancy
Quick to
Undress,
Enormously
Endowed, I like to
Nibble his naughty nakedness, and
Savour his
Comely body
Orally; he's
Very
Edible
Owen shakes his head. "You're a terrible poet, you know."
Neal raises his eyebrows. "Hark who's talking. This is utter doggerel."
"Until next year's then?"
"Can't wait."
They put their presents in their pockets, kiss once or twice more, and return to their friends, wives, and eavesdroppers, hoping no one has yet noticed they were gone.
Owen hides his poems, until the day the fighting finally gets to him, and then he draws them out and reads them when he needs Neal the most.
Neal keeps his poems hidden, except on the days when he loses a patient. When he can't save someone, he needs Owen to help him try again with the next person.