Girl with the Flaxen Hair

Shoulder-length hair
tucked behind one ear
she stoops to tend a rose.
The scent of new-mown grass,
of heavy, binding jasmine
mingle with the hint
of apple-wood smouldering
on a damp, and distant bonfire.

Supposes she might dally
by a mossy, yellow fountain
on a crumbling, red-brick wall.
Hears the water trickle –
dripping from the mouth
of a lions-head carved in stone
where lichen abounds.

A cacophony of cushions
line the rusty wrought-iron bench
where she sits and reminisces,
as ruddy-cheeked nasturtiums,
by the tawny, shingle path
nod their drowsy heads
in the noonday sun,
and Californian Lilac
hangs low with its blossom
of mauve and gentian blue.

A green-eyed tabby cat – sits
and preens its fur – tail around
a fragrant stem of thyme
and the sweet, heady perfume
of the Tuscan lemon tree
in its terracotta pot, invades
the sultry air, as soundly sleeps
the girl with the flaxen hair.