Poems & Essays

22 Apr

Isaac Among the Buttercups

General/Column No Response

“Do I like butter?”

Under his chin the golden promise

glows, bee-sweet, on smooth skin,

his face a fresh, uptilted moon.

I nod. He shrugs and frowns,

strokes the citrus yellow flower,

now limp, bedraggled, lets it fall.

A finger of breeze toys with his hair,

his black-lashed eyes are summer blue

as he searches the reflecting sky

for buzzards, distracted by Robinia’s

lime-green tongues, the flit of damsel flies.

I choose a rose for him, gypsum-white,

offer up its peach and molasses fragrance,

but he’s off running, on sunburnt legs,

through buttercups, knee-deep in sunlight.

 

Lesley Quayle is a poet, author and folk/blues singer and mother of four who currently lives in the wilds of rural Dorset.

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