We felt the warm sun on our shoulders,
As we climbed that grassy hill. Clambered
among sweet buttercups, swaying in a hazy september breeze. A pair of lost souls. Sinners.
Far from the kerbside violets we knew once.
The September days were long, as were our formal, tiring, careful sentiments
I didn't tell you then, that to me
You were and would forever be
a thousand rain-soaked day-kisses
A forgotten treasure, like a wild pine scent, a pink tinted perfection
To undress with my eyes
And then with trembling fingers.
To kiss amongst the dandelions and blackberries
You were a fresh fruit, then over ripened.
Started to rot under the sunny affections of various town girls. Wine warming, fire dying, stars disappearing behind pale clouds of hair attached to
a pretty face's empty head.
Now it's just me in my meadow.
The birds picked their fruit from the stem of winter, and the harvest of summer love is over.

Are you coming in, vicar? The night is getting cold,
The sky is dark, the trees are quiet,
and it won't hurt to have a small one.

Let me take your coat sir, come and sit beside the fire.
A whiskey? there you are,


I've always wondered why you haven't married -
surely a man of the cloth must be in want of a wife?

Vicar, if you'll allow me, you have something on your cheek,
that collar looks frightfully uncomfortable;
just leave it on the mantle there,
I see the way you look at me during sermon.

I've loved you always, Will, say you feel the same.
God, my darling, I love it when you whisper my name.

Her love spills out like scarlet seeds,
and red wine rolled on jealous tongues,
and gold leaves nestled in her hair.
It feathers during secret deeds

whilst breath is passed between two lungs.
Rubies cluster at her throat
like blood clots that her flesh forgot.
She draws him to her, limb in limb,
a desperate love dressed up in quilts.

The seeds that bloomed begin to rot,
and candles die, and lust grows dim,
hence never shall he gasp her name,
or she wish to be close to him.