Expensive Italian light fittings are wasted on me.
Give me tea lights in jam jars; scatter them in the grass
under a lunar-lit counterpane littered with fractal planets.
I don’t need to be carried to bed in silk lingerie.
Just lay me naked on a blanket in the dark under the Sessile Oak
and trace the contours of my breasts with fallen catkins.
I don’t want to sit on cowhide watching flat-screen plasma.
I want to lay sated and spent, with my limbs still caffled in you,
listening to Spring seduce Summer in the night-hushed garden.
And though I will relish every moment with you,
I shall not mourn the passing days or changing seasons,
for when Autumn comes we shall have acorns.