Down the aisle of
dandelion clocks
we stroll,

Copse's line our quiet 
lane and thrushes 
flit between them.

All that can be heard 
is the soft thrum 
of their wings behind the veil 
of thistle.

A train of mist 
follows the missed 
lace daisies latticed into a thousand spiderwebs and

The Grass gloved 
in due teary dew 
follows us.

I wish
It were Christmas 
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.

It's a beautiful 
Excuse to not do 
The ******* things 
In life that we spend 
Our lives doing.

The fairy lights 
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents 
With the buzz
of electricity.

I wish it were 
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful 
Excuse to love
Extravagantly. 

Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches 
Of bare Christmas Trees

I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to 
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round 
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.

I love the beautiful 
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought 
And how love is sieved 
Through in the snow.

Milk
   and
      Honey
gamble away the

t
i
m
e.
In a y e a r we will fl            y
into the s    a and
                e

s    o      a        r over your smile.
Nobody speak.

This
is
just
another

day in Spite.
         a
       r   n
In F.      ce

Shall we
             sow
       ee
the s  ds of your t   i  m e?
my time?
its\                   /time.
     been a long

Milk
         and
                 Honey
  a   b  e
g  m  l        away our t        ime.
Maybe

in
a year
or so. I
wont want the grass
to grow.
Because

it w-o-n't allow

           s        e
your    m   l        to     s   o     a    r.
                i

Honeyed icing-sugar
sun melts the snow caps
on the mountains
hair and grates the tough
green, soft

In Caramel pastures,
In sunken hills,
Under the seaweed,
Cowslips grow,
With rubied spotted
Ladies crawling up blades,
And the bumbles rumbled
buzz, a continuous growl,
Sways the floating gold.

The dark spider darts
Spearing crumpled
Flies in its silken steel
Thread. Thread which sparkles
amid the Bronze knives 
which spear it too.

November dazzles
In its mundanity.
The month between the
Russet autumn and blue winter.
Skeletal leaves
on the lyre are strung
In azure frosts
in emerald forests
and encrusted with rubies.
Novembers reclines in its throne.
In a minute,
a minute or so
It will slip to salt
and December's long
bequeathed chorus will begin
And so I will savour
these few shining seconds
a little longer.

I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher

And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.

I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace 
Increases at your sight.

I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.

I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.

I love mundane high croak 
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am 
opening my eyes 
for the first time. 

Opening to see you;
China cutlery, 
butter,
my steamy light, 
and rain.

The wild blackberry
plume bursts,
effervescent under briar
and brambles,
brilliant indigo and magenta prior.

We picked the posy
and sweet fruits
which scalloped along the ditch
until our baskets were full and rich.

The bronzey leaves quiver gently
but do not fall
however thick thorns plenty
tear our long skirts
and scratch our pasty legs.

Stained with dirt
And blood and mud
We skip home through thyme.
Through our childhood as
The blackbirds caw.