Dusk Honeysuckle


To the dusk
Flowers put their moods
In scented wafts
On which the eyes might close,
Deferring to the only open sense
Of the tantalised nose,
In which such enrichment
Is found in sweet distillate
Of earth and loam:
The mind somehow
Washed in perfumed sherbet,
Cleaned by something
Made perfect,
Alerted to the essential element
Volatile under the mid summer moon.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Night After Sunshine

I walk barefoot
And feel the sun’s memory
In kiss of warm concrete.
And then to the cool grass
To which I feel the earth’s body,
Lumpy and imperfect
But encompassing
The gentlest hug.
And there
I perceive personality
In night-sweet
And night-flush,
The scently gush of roses
Dripping the pollen of their love,
Feeding nocturnal bug and drab
Moth alike, just as butterflies of day’s
Light take their nourishment.
For the dark is full of giving
And the rose seeks no commitment
But gives
To all those wishing
To sip the nectar of its life,
Knowing them as equals
In the wholeness
Of the wholesome day and night.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In The Summer Dusk

In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.

And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.

What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.

A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.