A Wrong Turn

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You bent,

my thoughts like weights about your shoulders,

irresistible in their leaden pull

to a lawn of words freshly cut and raw.

You knelt and I smiled and traced the dew that

beads between your thighs,

limbs that long for fire and fucking and the

honeyed salt of the tenderest love we make

on wordless evenings.

There is balance in the contrast:

leather's curling pain like the ivy's tendrils,

feeding on the outstretched span of rigid boughs, then

trust's rare caress, the quiet gardener,

trimming short the bloom

of reddened stripe;

the flowers that unfurl to flame the night, then

rain's quiet tears with morning cloud,

magnolia whilst the colours sleep, soaking earth with dreams.

You bent.

You knelt.

I smiled.