Lets go down to the bluebell wood
to lie beneath the new sprung leaves

and let the patterns of their shadows

dance upon our bodies
 

And we’ll snuggle

to annul the fresh spring breeze

which bears the scent

of those virgin flowers

that wreath us as we watch 

the insects search

for nectar 

They’ll be no apples nor any snakes

and yet we’ll sin as one

hidden there in bliss

amongst the bracken

and lucky white heather