Yesterday's Flowers

How sweet it was to sip a
yellow chalice of sunshine...
I still lick my lips recalling
that draught of liquid loving cup
glowing under our chins;
how, famished by chill Spring,
we'd greedy supped on heat, till
sated, sprawled immobile
as twinned Siamese cats,
tails twitched, olive eyes
narrowed and squinting
in the early summer haze, 
dazed by the glare of brazen daisies 
upstaging bright buttercups underfoot;
how, unabashed, they'd fired
your countenance, cast a dizzying
spell upon our drunkenness.
I'd half dozed to the hum of 
a distant bumble bee, lost
and floundering in its grassy 
forest of endless possibilities.
I'd quickened curled, content 
in the warm press against 
your hot chest, in the crook
of your arm and willed 
the world to stop, dock, 
quell the alarm clock that 
would surely wake the dead
from such revelry.

But dream day drifted unwilling
into a dull slate grey, as random
cold winds spilled lone stars to
tandem dot a coal black night.
Heat took flight, as did your smoulder; 
you merely shrugged your shoulders, 
shook off sleep and all my sweet bouquets,
the gathered markers of our day 
in the sun. Stillborn blossoms, drooped, 
bewildered as I, bled of all their fun.  

Who'd count the fall of petals, chase
forgotten scent in a former bower, when 
Time halted the hours as we lay 
languid in love, and yesterday's flowers...