Bullrushes in a rush to grow,

robins bobbing on the lawn,

I spy along the lookout,

lovers, hand in hand, let go, go on,

lean into their longing—kiss.

Under prying eyes and mountain ash

too bare for private screening,

light as the brush of an eyelash,

touching lips, fingertips, tongues

teasing hunger, stop seeking—cling.

Breeze and song brings us to our sense

outside ourselves, where, a flirting pair,

circles the air, suspends, beating wings,

drawing three stares, two unaware

the third one is there. A fourth?—wink.

© Helga Ross 2008