Bumbling

dressed in fraying threads

in bands of black and gold

his skin and face ebony

his lemon fur bristling

 

a fleeting ditch line bard

of brilliant blooming poems

he gathers honeyed words

scribes the sweetest verse.

 

he flies in fits of flitting

he’s the Heathcliff of the meadow

flirts with sunlit sweethearts

on the tangled bramble hedgerow.

 

ladies summer faces kissed

harvested with gentle sips

to daphnes and daisies,

he is the sting of lovers lips

 

He bumbles among the bramble

work calloused farm labourer.

set to hoard and harvest nectar

and sacrifice to nature

 

supplicant to she,

amorphous bursting queen

and a tribe of bawling babes

in sweet scented prison cells,

 

he who circumnavigates

the world in touch and taste

a worker in the burning fields

toiling dawn till late,

 

the best-man, and the usher in

but never mating groom

In autumn wins her withered heart

then flies to die alone

 

 

-dak

6 thoughts on “Bumbling

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