She came too late that year
for the welcoming white
of the wild garlic,
though crushed beneath their feet
they shared its rising scent.

With summer's approval, the valley laid
a spread of hospitality;
played a slow motion picture show
entitled: All About Green;
offered a martyr's faith.

A Blue-winged Olive dipped down,
troutless and unappetizing,
beneath the mirage heat
that stroked the whispering chuckle
of the valley stream.
Memories of split-cane rods
and paternal bonding
divided them in a daydream;
he was a boy again.

Oblivious to his thoughts,
seeking the higher ground,
she claimed the oaks, her servants,
as they offered up their verdant mantle.
Ever watchful of such Celtic hue,
they breezed a mottled fealty
to their axeless, cotton-dressed
Boudica.

And he went to her,
late that night,
as she murmured in occupied sleep.
Her hair was everywhere;
that auburn fire of the midday sun,
doused beneath the ochre-grey
of the half-light.
Those opening eyes:
yielding, liquid sapphires
that drove all darkness to its knees.

The moment came with a smile:
calm, expectant.
Lips from slumber swollen
surrendered freely;
soft, tiny pillows of acceptance.

He touched the gentle moisture
of her dreams disturbed.
Her scent was all of him;
she became him;
he believed.