Soft behind the woodpile
after the damp dark and decay
of a Winter’s wet and chilly hand
the disturbing light of day.
I’d swear that she was blushing
as the timber curtains spread
or was that ‘amour’
flushing –
her cheeks and toes so red.
But they were slow to scamper
from their fond embrace;
as if such rude exposure
were just commonplace.
Soon the pond will fill with action,
at our neighbour’s pad,
with tiny tadpole attestation
of the fun they had.
1 comment:
Delightful - well done.
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