still life at tan hill

just after sunrise, in the sticky sweetness of a tent for two.
there'll be no need for an umberella this weekend.

the remanants of a fire; burnt carrot coals cooled to ash
and smouldering with memory.

memories of kinks of ink black hair and careful caresses,
of drinking cammomile tea with the stars,

these two seekers of secrets and lovers of solitude;
settled, for a weekend in wilderness.

surrounding green envelops, an ampitheatre for peace
and new love. there are only the bleats of sheep for company

and the landscape is bleak, and beautiful, but never, ever twee.