Coy Maids Yield – 23rd November 2021

A peach, not yet ripe, hangs tempting
Soft fur on skin clear and pale
Untouched by the hands of fate
A heart grows older, lamenting
This light will never be the same
When summer arrives, the crow is late
And so shall end this game

The gravity tugs at all the fruits
Suspended like puppets, dancing on the wind
The ripened fall among the flowers
As the strings begin to yield and bend
Gently whispered words that sour
As hungry wolves gather sniffing
In search of fresh fruits to devour

No new ideas found under Newton’s tree
What is gone will bloom again
Forbidden fruits in gardens green
Cherries picked, hummingbird and bee
Seeds spread to await cold rain
The coy maids pollen floating free

The Week That Was – 25th February 1979