Grass, thistles, bluebells
by kat-walsh
The sun on my tongue tastes
like home, like childhood, like all the happy parts,
like warm syrup running down my spine
and my worn feet, on grass, thistles, bluebells, your bed,
springing up to touch the wooden ceiling
later to be found peaking out from the duvet
as I was waking up to rain early
and smoke from the chimney across the way
and looking over to see, on the night stand, steaming tea and sticky-sweet buns
that taste like the sun, and you.