Your golden buttercups alight,
like starlight on a dreary day,
the scene of the crime, of adventure:
I chase red ants in a blue striped suit,
slow sandy socks rest
in dusty patent leather shoes;
I crawl and trawl the murdered grass
seeking to reassert, to reestablish
dominion;
I dive and swim your blue ocean
until your grey sky becomes my dread,
my fear of drowning without escape.
Your golden buttercups
spread thinly on wholesome toast
with blacker than black Joe,
an open window and a lonely lark,
and that smile โ a crime of passion
un-punishable.
