The Blossom On the Bough

Two sonnets for May, and my muse The fires are lit, my lover, and the hills are flickering with little points of light The sun is set, and deep within the rills the seeds of stars are littering the night The smoke is rising, lover, rising high in winding spires of ribbons in the air and in the rivers where the willows cry and on the leys the ancient druids dare to walk, the chalk is glowing. I know you will never leap the Beltane fires with me or rise on one May morning in the dew beside me, spellbound by my poetry Or so it seems. But oh, my lover, how the blossom burns, so brightly on the bough The maypole’s up, my lover, on the green its willow ribbons flutter in the breeze I would you be my king, and I your queen for one night only, here beneath the trees The hawthorn froths, my lover, in the hedge the buds are bursting, birds are nesting high yet still you fly, my hawk, above the edge of some cold mountain way up in the sky Come down, or are you wary that a flame might fall within your feathers, or a spark ignite your heart, or god forbid, you came to want to stay beside me in the dark It’s so, it seems. But see, my lover, now the blossom burning brighter on the bough © Gail Foster 1st May 2018