Deep in the willow wandering wood of bracken

and brackish pools, of cranes and dragonflies,

of sudden movements of mammals and wild fowl,

in the sweet wet water flowing over her white toes

she stood in a crinoline shift lifted high to her thigh

and her mirth rippled over the lapping waves.

The Harlot hem ran dark like blood with the stream

but she didn’t flow away in the green willow solitude.

Her pink flesh rolled like hours over her breast,

her hips, to her soles immersed in diamond water.

Pebbles of green and grey and gold dashed her feet

and the dappled sun caressed her flaming hair.

Pale was her pinkness, crimson was the depth

of her heart beating deep beneath the delicate

orbs of her bosom. And my hands of dry calico

longed for the longitude of her silk, the latitude

of the pert pristine pearl-whiteness of her breasts.

Long had I traversed the land, long had my tongue

carried a thirst for the succour her sweet wet thighs

could slake. So I waited for my moment of sensuous

seduction in the rainbow meadow beyond the brook.

But a snapping twig sundered my dream-like mirage,

the visage of ecstatic beauty, and I roused resting

against the bough of a sweeping, lethargic willow.




Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15 or

at https://www.facebook.com/Malek-Montag-Author;


Image from: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/7f/ca/91/7fca91fd0b9d4bc753e7c671e0cf505d.jpg


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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