Buttercup Meadow

He lies me softly back on buttercup meadow,

The black curls that frame his face

Brush my cheek as he softly touches my lips with his.

How I love that face above me,

Features so fine they could move you to tears;

Or to write prose as I do now.

Sonnets that will sing of his black hair

And hazel brown eyes that can steal your soul,

Before you are even aware it has been taken.

He lies beside me, my love, raised up on one elbow,

Whilst the tee shirt sleeve on his other

Ruffles in the gentle breeze.

He gently sings to me as he traces the outline of my face,

With an artist’s finger.

The afternoon sun bathes us in a golden glow

Matched only by the buttercups all around us,

Lost in time and space, there is only he and I,

He that exists in my own private world

In my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams.

And if he should clumsily dance into my life

With his lopsided smile

I shall be only too happy ,

To be whisked away in a soft veil of ecstasy.