“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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