I got the idea from one of your old stories. Building golems out of river mud and whatnot. Except I didn't want a golem. I just wanted you back by my side.
Peddling clayware in the sweltering
...
[+]
Susan lives in London. She recently gained a creative writing degree and has published her first book of short stories "A Jumble of Good Intentions." "No hurry, maybe tomorrow," was originally published in Short Edition’s July '19 Rendez-Vous.
A silky warm scent coats the air.
Soft layered rose tutus push
their blush pale skirts
to float and dance
their puckish pirouettes
upon the mossy darkness of the laurel.
Arching stems with needle claws
climb to grasp
the flirty pink geraniums -
clustered blooms on slender necks,
reaching out their benison from wall-hung pots
on peachy, sun-bleached walls.
The gentle breeze of afternoon
waves purple headed wallflowers -
their spindly stems
still fragrant, nodding comfort
at the tender daisies dotting
white percussion through the lawn.
Sleeping in the swaying hammock
slung beneath the silver trees,
the gardener dreams
of peonies,
their velvet heavy heads curved
with countless dropping petals.
A stack of seed packs waits upon
the sower's slow indulgence
his languor stalls the starting -
sparks of urgent growing are waiting, unbegun.
And over all, the constant hum of working bees
stealing gold amongst the blooms.
Soft layered rose tutus push
their blush pale skirts
to float and dance
their puckish pirouettes
upon the mossy darkness of the laurel.
Arching stems with needle claws
climb to grasp
the flirty pink geraniums -
clustered blooms on slender necks,
reaching out their benison from wall-hung pots
on peachy, sun-bleached walls.
The gentle breeze of afternoon
waves purple headed wallflowers -
their spindly stems
still fragrant, nodding comfort
at the tender daisies dotting
white percussion through the lawn.
Sleeping in the swaying hammock
slung beneath the silver trees,
the gardener dreams
of peonies,
their velvet heavy heads curved
with countless dropping petals.
A stack of seed packs waits upon
the sower's slow indulgence
his languor stalls the starting -
sparks of urgent growing are waiting, unbegun.
And over all, the constant hum of working bees
stealing gold amongst the blooms.