We periscoped through the flowers, eyes white and wide with childish wonder, the color of our petals painted gold, flashing wildly under beams of sunlight flaring through the leaves, threatening to fall only too soon. Aye, but not us, not then, for we were in bloom and it was summer, and the season proclaimed our love, and our love the season. But to look upon that sweet scene, as would a ****** in the valley, would be to recognize at once the folly of a boy in the presence of the flora. For what was I to give when all you wanted was before you?
Tone and subject borrowed heavily from Dylan Thomas and Hugh MacDiarmid.