Summerhouse

Flowers are mostly pink
In my garden,
Moondust and summerhouses,
Garden parties
On milky evenings,
As the sun melts in the west,
And the cocktails breathe
A swirl of fire
Down the kisses in your throat.
The parched glare of the day
Is over, tennis games,
Serves into the back of the net,
And a list of maids
Bringing to drinks menu.
The crinkled lace of your hat
Rests in the hay loft,
And I can see my ship,
Full-windowed, buttressed,
Through the summerhouse window.