Black Lace & Bluebells


Ah, summertime. Oooh, sex.

Two of our favorite things together in one poem. Two great tastes that taste great together!

You know, it is not often that a poet's life goes according to plan. I mean, if it did, we would not often have grist for our mill, so to speak, but every once in a while a guy just gets lucky (in every sense of the word).

Soft grass, cool breezes, a warm and willing lover, and you have got all the makings of a romantic poem.


BLACK LACE AND BLUEBELLS



The lilt of floral summer
found me waiting
against a woodland tree,
in the early evening sun,
accompanied by birdsong,
recalling you.

Idling on grass
sprinkled with bluebells
and fairies' laughter,
you kiss the wine from my lips
and tug a blossom from my hair,
releasing me to fly.

We are the only two who exist
in this slice of the world.
Separated only by black lace
and animal heat,
which is no separation at all.

Pulling bits of earth loose
we mask the musk of our rut
with loam,
fecund and sweet,
just as you are.

A gamble for ecstasy
in a nameless game
older than the trees
which shade us,
we both shiver in an autumnal moment,
the silvering of this instant
the winning stroke.

You hold me as a I clasp you,
watching me with those magical eyes,
silencing my climax
with cloud-soft kisses
that steal my essence
in exchange for bliss.

Our wild, woodland moment
will live inside of me
as long as bluebells
dance across meadows.

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