reveries of sun-drenched prairies;
windswept under cottony clouds
golden-yellow in summery indolence

As the days grow long
And nights shrivel to hours
The feeling of little sunflowers
In the eversinking sunlight
Bloom softly among
Lonely, setting summer skies

During the time
in between
my two most recent mosquito bites,
we had met
and you had left.
Tonight,
I pensively trace over
the brim of the
first mosquito bite of the year,
reminiscing.

A swallow pair appeared
fashionably late
to legitimise the charcoal incense burned
in honour of escaping carpet
and the same ****** curtains

Other birds stuck with us through the ****
but as they are chubby, drab and common,
love’s taken for granted

The sign of these slick interlopers
with their continental drift
makes us giddy and all a-flap
at least til the bite of autumn

normally
I love
the sum of
the sun,
the summer.
every bleak winter day
I wait for the sun
to kiss me
again.

but today
her kiss
is unbearable
torching my eyes
blazing past my eyelids
radiating right through my core
extinguishing me from within.

every bleak second of today
I waited for the sun
to go
away.

all I wanted
was
some more shuttered seconds
some more blissful blackout
some more ducky dreams.

Dazzled!
Blinded by the Sun.
My eyes scream in pain.
But then they ease
And as I soak up the scene
My spirit lifts.

All is brightly lit
In glorious sunshine.
Lush green foliage
Reflecting those golden rays
Provoking images
Of sunny beaches
Swaying palms
On remote tropical isles.

Under the dome of a hazy light-blue sky
Bedecked with fluffy fair-weather clouds
We bask in the sun, sun, sun.

What more can you ask for
On a balmy summer day?
Well, maybe a cool pint of ale.
Amen.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\5\2021.

𝐵𝓊𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝓎,
𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓎
I feel best in my strawberry dress
It's stupid, really
all glee and smile
gee, I acted like a child
It's stupid, really
I thought of nothing
but of my love for you
Godd-mn,
𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦,
𝘪𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭?

And if it weren't for those times
where impediment
was all I can speak of,  
𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍,
𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛
synthesizing
my weathered hyacinth
into a 𝕘𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕕𝕒𝕗𝕗𝕠𝕕𝕚𝕝
resided by the lake
of your
evergreen field

Be it 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙, 𝘍𝘪𝘵𝘻𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘥,
𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒, or 𝚁𝚞𝚖𝚒
No sonnets on earth
is as beautiful
is as grandeur
as God-made poetry;
You.