Thoughtless Pollinating

FullSizeRender

When it wakes
It hears the flowers
Call in scents.
It desires
The ultra violet
Of colours
And the deep
Well of love
In which nectar pools
And collects.
When it wakes
It thinks of nothing else
But the warmth on the wing
And the burrowing head
Thoughtless in the dream
Of pollinating.
When it wakes
It be itself
And thinks
Not a thought
Outside of its being.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

It Rained In The Night

IMG_2234
The air is moist
And humid heavy

But fresh
With new rain,

Still dampening down
Still weighing

Each leaf droopy,
Each bended stalk

Gravity bound.
Some flower heads

Are dew drunk
Lively, plush

And open eyed,
As perfect

As purity
In droplet spheres

Expressed
Upon the petals body.

But some are dashed
To autumnal fall:

The rose
Shaggy on its swollen hip,

Curling
And fading tears

Scattered in the falling.
It’s as if

The night could
Reach beyond

It’s dark boundary:
Wet finger tips

Invading the day
Or morning, at least:

Its species
Conveyed in fluid:

The slugs
The snails

Putting down
Their silver trails

For the sun’s
Open touch

And glitter
In awakening.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015