C) Six Weeks Without Armour

From the carelessly painted sill
to the yellow fray
six weeks without armour
is the agreement we have made.

A vacation spent at the old house.
My affection boiling, spilling bubbles
over the rim of our combustible troubles.

Beds of scarlet blooms.
Spiders in the mouths of flowers.
We've been here no longer than a day.
(under 4 hours)

Gutters are a mawkish frame
chipped and well-acquainted with the rain.
These semi-cylinders guard our fort
like the proverbial scarecrow.

A weathered face darts like a serpents tongue
through the portcullis that keeps old Mrs Woods at bay.
Our defences are down, but here we are safe.

Compatriots on this terrain
we have coffee on the veranda when our bodies are drained.
At dusk we sip beer and she lies across my chest, watching the moths,
feeling no unrest.

The swing creaks as I speak
my girl falls asleep.
Six weeks without armour
is all we will need.