Wild Flowers

I carried you through the wet grass,
your breasts crushed to my back,
hot breath upon my neck,
whispering.

We lay by the lake, lips moist,
in anticipation.
Fresh petals, opened to the sun
the scent of new buds, ripened,
as nature takes its course.

Moans sigh upon a summer breeze,
beneath a willow,
weeping.

By Chris Birrane © 2011