Locus Amoenus

'The Idyllic Place' -
love, without the distractions, without the hurry. Love and lying with nature's peace.

Let us retreat to the idyllic place
Between the rough thistle and fern,
Where the eyes of pine dare not watch sternly –
Shiver with me in daylight’s ebb.
Oh, you are my tree, every root and shoot,
Dear you keeps a foundation under which I must grow,
Hands are grasping the sky as if we are infinity –
Even winter must bear the kiss warm lovers bring.
Huddle under my skin, youthful, let us wind
Our fingers to and fro in the clouds,
Wispy daydreams have known us, in the essence of air;
Summer murmurs have kept us alone in the grove.
Springtime, blush onto the flesh –
We will wear robes of moonlit when she retires –
All the nightbeams hang, draping, from the edges
Of our trees, those clothing with their own sighs.
For you collect eyes like the berries above,
You hold stems tall along with your hands,
Rosy petals flex outwards, beckoning sound,
And we lie always in Ovidian caress.
My flower, pity the autumn’s dark,
When she has no husband to spread to the floor,
No starlight to take and raid for his beauty,
No sovereignty with a crown formed of bark;
Instead, let her be jealous of our crusade,
With her hands she will pour down a tirade –
Take those anger-burnt leaves and make a dress;
We shall dance barefoot whilst fury rains.
You are the blades marking emerald feet,
Breathing in blood made of mud,
Sweet you is the flutter of beasts on my heart,
And, oh, the pleasant distraction from the land.

The End

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