Her lips were stained red,
   Her bright smile, utter dread.
      Befitting a She-vampire,
         "But tis only Beetroot, Sire!"

Sun settled over
beetroot sky, like
mother hen over
clutch.

And I could smell
the beetroots burning
against horizon
shift.

Sizzle-flip
and turn them over.
Leaking pale red into
the sea.

One dimensional folding paper,
greaseproof (we presume);
Wrap it up, tape the ends.
Send light to the moon.

I'm sat in a pearl 
on your lips
Mouthing sweet hymns
Of the lemon pips
That you spit from your lips
 
I'm stood in ruby
In your hair
Hearing bitter chorals 
of beetroot stalks
That you hang from your ear.

I'm struck in amethyst 
Through your pupil
Tasting great lilacs
And smelling supple, 
Subtle lavender.