You laid me down
a bed of thistles for my head to rest.
We spoke in whispers when we spoke at all –
whilst in my mind you teased me loud
a fool – oh yes a fool – indeed.
Mock do the oranges, as they
envelop the night with their pungent scent.
Whilst white adorns the lilies,
bridal gowns fit for one and all –
Yet caught between your breezes
the aspen tree and I do tremble
as the harvester skilfully propels, all the summer
blooms away –
Death as if my own hands
scythed away their life.
What price, the burden, of one golden ring
oh how I asked:
Then not liking the answer that lay about my feet?
So shall I rise a sapling untainted
sterile at the hands of man
For redolent are the flowers – when agreed
about a women’s virtues
As bees around a honey pot –
sweet is the surety ~ as only a great oaks love can be.
Though ever indecisive be the heart ~ when there are rose buds
waiting to be gathered in profusion!
Poppy April 2014 ~xx~