Thursday, 13 October 2016



Molly coddles eggs with nutmeg and spices,
conjures confections, all shapes and sizes.
Sugar and dishes, menthol pleasures,
and kissing, hissing cinnamon treasures.

While deep among the orchard’s paving,
With visions of sailing, squash and bathing,
The grand master contemplates tessellations,
Hums snatches of shanties from far away nations.

Where my back browned in the sun from above,
and warmed in the comfort of far gone love.
Fragrances, fragments; the dust of a dream,
malting and melting the distant Cymbeline.

 Who could have known, lying then, on that beach,
something so precious could be so far from reach?

No comments:

Post a Comment