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
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