Long flows your hair upon my moistened chest,
Sweet silken savoured, as by breeze caressed,
As though I am but basking field of wheat,
A golden shimmer ‘neath sun’s own breathless heat.
Where be my earthly bounds, my soil’s repose,
That fertile loam where stout stalk often grows?
Vast spread, it seems, beneath o’erreaching skies,
Of azure face set deep with moon-shone eyes.
At field’s far reach soft stirrings soon begin,
I feel the bound of hedgerows hem me in
Where nightingale and thrush and finch reside,
Sweet soaring songs that mark your limb’s abide.
Drawn down upon the falling eve’s embrace,
Soft scents of fragrant air lend tender grace
To cooler spread of land’s now darkening breast
Where perfumed press, of yours on mine, does rest.
Clive S Johnson
Poet for August