Too Much Sun Has Made Them Over-Bold
The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise
Like crocuses in springtime on the green
Like eager maidens wanting to be seen
While sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs.
Too much sun has made them over-bold
They are at risk from their own desperate joy.
For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed
They must be fertilised or die before they’re old.
And this same sun makes me a melting splodge
A lick of oil paint mixed and uncomposed.
Who was this artist; what did he propose?
And will this portrait in my memory lodge?
As flowers will inevitably die
They do not lose by hurling up their joys.
But should we women imitate their ploys?
For we might live in shame, amply supplied.
Each child of nature feels the touch of sun.
Some stretch out in joy while others run.
If you might vacillate and never choose
She who chooses has the least to lose .
Copyright © Katherine Braithwaite | Year Posted 2016
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