“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.
Would you like to join the discussion? Feel free to contribute!
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *