red, yellow, blue sore saucers glaring in light
some rewards of flight from a dark night.
weeping a little in my honeyed bed.
haematoma proof of the love you bled.

tender sacrifice under arc in flight.
the sting of conquester’s wing, a slight
on your grace and features that will bring:
no scream but in colours you'll sing.

the rhythm. a slap, a punch, a slap, slap
you collapse and welcome into open flap
it's sting, ****** of stamen into stigma.
a death most welcome in heat of day

when, in killing bed,your sisters heralds
good King Chloris in the closing chorus.