Pleasure Is

Pleasure is. So sweet the seasons sounds, That makes for those summer days. Skies make for a back drop of hues of blue, Sweet mowing grass now sheared as hay. Upon my face the beads of perspiration, As I wipe my fevered brow. The days now long as I swing forth the scythe, High above the sun beats down. A shout breaks my concentration, For it is Mary who is my love. Under a large oak tree she shelters, Truly a pure vision from above. For with her a wicker basket, Its contents now lay out before. She beckons me come forward, Asl my senses cry out for more. In her tender arms my head gently lies, Beneath a canopy of green. Dappled sun light highlights her flowing hair, For the world id trade, for these moments gleaned. ©N . Windle. 2009