by Robert Davidson
And They Thought She Had Missed Out On Love.
They called her an old maid
Said Maud never had the chance to test her virtue
Said she was like a pressed flower in a book.
But little did they know -
You just didn't boast about it when she was young.
As she moved in the garden
She touched a crocus - its little golden phallus pressing the air
And allowed her mind to flicker
Amongst the tufts and wands of plants in the garden -
And that red curved thorn on the rose bush.
Suddenly there were images ... alternating in the dancing sunlight
The past popping up in embarrassing guise
Often with landslides of emotion.
'Did you sleep with him?' she heard them ask.
'Well, you have to when there's a war on,' she had said.
And then there was that Senator
Had a heart-attack whilst on the job
And died astride
Her dimpled milk-white knees.
Often she would find herself
Giving way to her inner nature after a few brandies
When naked as the monlight
She would wrestle with a young man in the garden
In an inferno of love.
One doesn't last forever, she had always thought
And I'm not as young as I was
And knew a spasm of relief she was still desirable.
And as she grew older
Lust continued in fantasy and dream
Dreams of flesh to be rubbed against flesh
And inserted into flesh.
And now as she sat alone in the garden
Little did they know
Her freckle-encrusted cleavage
Was bursting - bursting with unspoken love.
Copyright 2005 http://www.robertdavidson.blogsource.com