Smoking Buttercup

My garden lies between two listed trees.
I do not know which kind they are
But they are old
Old
With a freight of knowledge
A weight of knowledge
A freighted weight of knowledge
That gentles and tempers the discontent of winter wildness
Beneath their limbs.

Black and green on duckegg
They, fingergroping, bridge the bluebright birdbright cacophony of morning
They, arch and overarching, vault the heartshape heartland of bluebells
That linger lambent like a votive flame,
Indigo and evanescent
On marijuana woodbine woodsmoke.
(Wherein, also, two purple belladonna are busy dying of loneliness).

To my left is your tree, to my right, mine.
And I fancy I can see
The push of your breasts
The hollow of my groin
A dimpling of navels.

Faces, lined and ancient, sometimes alien
But smiling across the greensward,
At me, each other. Anyone who cares to notice.

I see a pudendum
pouting beneath the greygreen lichen of your pubic hair.

I see the lip-swollen readiness of your sex
In the whorls and burrs and bark-wounds.

I see the pollarding
And the ghost of childhood lost,
Dancing in the moonlight.

And your branch here meets my branch there
(and this phallus plunges headlong headstrong into the sap-sticky woodscar, to the hooting woodwind of my friends the collared doves
and incipient madness)…

Ahhh, a breeze.
The pick-me-up scent of some Jamaican blend
On the forget-me-not echo of sunset honeysuckle.

I am woolgathering, dissipated.
The trees are but trees
The weeds are only weeds,
And you are with him.