Dream of Delight

I glimpsed her first,
that morning
on the hill
on the heath.

We didn’t speak.
I doffed my cap,
she coyly nodded –
her cheeks, pink
as candyfloss,
her hair black
as liquorice,
eyes like Chartreuse
and those lips
roscid, ripe
and sweet.

How I envied
her precious,
pampered pooch –
her King Charles spaniel,
nuzzling at those dainty
stockinged feet.

In my repose
I dreamt of her...
most of which
too risqué to regale.

How the sun came up,
a golden globe...
how I fell, heels
over head, in love
with that delectable,
delightful young thing

whose sybaritic thighs
were my transport to delight...
whose honey-pot I tasted;
mellifluous and mellow.

My chaste, voracious
virgin girl...until,
I unchaste her.