Poetry: The Book of my Enemy — Budge Up | clivejames.com
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Flowering cherry pales to brush-stroke pink at blossom fall
Like watermelon bitten almost to the rind.
It is in his mind because the skin is just that colour
Hot on her tight behind
As she lies in the bath, a Bonnard flipped like a flapjack.

His big black towel turns a naiad to a dryad,
No pun intended. Then,
An unwrapped praline,
She anoints herself with liberal Oil of Ulay.
It looks like fun.
Her curved fingers leave a few streaks not rubbed in.
He says: here, let me help.

The night is young but not as young as she is
And he is older than the hills.
Sweet sin
Swallows him at a gulp.

While cherry blossom suds dry on the lawn
Like raspberry soda
He attends the opening of the blue tulip
Mobbed at the stage door by forget-me-nots.

For a short season
He basks in her reflected glory.

Pathetic fallacy,
Dispelled by the clattering plastic rake.