Email Poem

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Poem

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

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