a thicket of greenscent,
of wild, vining delights.
I dreamt of you
in a bower of thornless wild rose,
in a bedding of fragrant mosses,
in a twine of budding buttercup
that which comes in heady,
perfumed and sudden,
a stag’s charge,
all trembling fingers
and dropped-jaw wet panting.
The cry I’ll drive from you
shall rouse the birds to flight,
pulse like the thunder of beating wings, frantic;
your animated slick-lipped howl
shall be the music of midnight and morning,
caught in both sun and moonbeam,
the two of us only motes,
around one another
until we fall
to dust once more.