We have a country garden
that basks serene in summer sun.
Lipstick pink camellias stroll the sidewalks
in vinyl skirts of lip gloss leaves.
Midnight blue delphiniums
in strapless evening gowns
hang on the arms of handsome moths.
We see baby blue borage eyes
wink coquettishly at passing bees.
Petunias flirt outrageously,
consort with sartorial butterflies.
A splurge of lime green spurges
are fleshpots for carrion flies,
a brothel of tempting offal smell.
Only the bumble bees can fumble,
ease themselves into a silky embrace
to be the beaux of foxglove bells.
Damsels of love in a mist in froufrou frocks
are awash with trembling oestrogen.
And then the roses, blousy and voluptuous,
drenched in boudoir perfumes,
shedding petals of scarlet lingerie.
The willows, oaks and conifers
are however above it all.
There's is an ethereal love
that brushes pollen kisses onto feathery lips.
But why then is the cedar sublimely elegant?
What need has she of such true grace,
whose lover is the fickle wind
that uncaring blows from place to place?