Black Lace and Bluebells

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.