Now that I’ve completed writing 50k words and before editing begins, poems squashed up inside me want to come out. There’s a special tree in the back garden, four actually, that inspired this:
Exquisite beauty down by the lily pond in the neighbour’s place in Katikati, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand. I want to dance with her, stroke her and write of her charms.
This isn’t the tree of the poem – I find I haven’t got a photo of it yet, but this will do.
She entices me,
a vision of purity and innocence yet
seductive like a whore with the spiciness of her perfume.
Slowly I inhale it, deeply satisfying
some unknown inner need.
Arms held out are covered
with white frothy frills
worthy of a wearable arts frock
made of toilet paper and
her frilled skirts bounce flirtatiously
as she moves in the breeze.
I sit beneath her picnicking there
just to be near her
listening to the drone of bees
sampling her delights
at the start of the honey flow.
Like a bride I sit, being showered
with lustrous petals, lost in wonder
and toying with whole blossom clusters
broken off by a careless tui
in search of nectar.
I float the broken beauties in a bowl
but they are dead
September 20, 2012