I dance to the windswept scent
of the flower bed that’s blooming
and walk to the sundrenched colour
of the bottle-brush in Spring.
I run to the overarching weakness
of the sunshine fading
and lie next to the smell of baby milk
that is the stunning bosom, bearing.
I sleep to the suppressed reality
of the sub-conscious, unaware
and wake to the noisy miner bird
singing joyful tunes at sunrise.
I live to see the wonder
of your gleaming eyes at morn’
greeting my mortality
like a feather flying
through the thinnest air with ease –
ending in the unknown
after sailing seven seas.
sensualism 