Cherries
Skin of cherries the glass of the woods
All taunt on the fruit holding sweet tasting goods
The colour of blood in my mouth a warm spicy flood
Of summer and sun the red rivulets run.
The texture of silk, the cherry’s dark milk.
Buoyant on the air, held by green stalks of hair,
Yes little cherry, so cute in my hand,
It is your soft skin my teeth demand.
Ripe on the wind fall to forest floor,
Crimson on lips the door to the maw.
Now left in the woods, glassy silence once more.
© Dripping Ink (Lauren Hay)
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