Miss Clitheroe

MISS CLITHEROE by Robert Davidson And They Thought She Had Missed Out On Love. They called her an old maid Said Maud never had the chance to test her virtue Said she was like a pressed flower in a book. But little did they know - You just didn't boast about it when she was young. As she moved in the garden She touched a crocus - its little golden phallus pressing the air And allowed her mind to flicker Amongst the tufts and wands of plants in the garden - And that red curved thorn on the rose bush. Suddenly there were images ... alternating in the dancing sunlight The past popping up in embarrassing guise Often with landslides of emotion. 'Did you sleep with him?' she heard them ask. 'Well, you have to when there's a war on,' she had said. And then there was that Senator Had a heart-attack whilst on the job And died astride Her dimpled milk-white knees. Often she would find herself Giving way to her inner nature after a few brandies When naked as the monlight She would wrestle with a young man in the garden In an inferno of love. One doesn't last forever, she had always thought And I'm not as young as I was And knew a spasm of relief she was still desirable. And as she grew older Lust continued in fantasy and dream Dreams of flesh to be rubbed against flesh And inserted into flesh. And now as she sat alone in the garden Little did they know Her freckle-encrusted cleavage Was bursting - bursting with unspoken love. Copyright 2005