LOVE ON THE THRONE (Sonnet) Wendy Webb
I tear apart quilt words to scent-fresh pine,
dull routine absence hollows out my time:
a homely cesspit of free-flowing slime.
I need your cistern’s flush, where loving’s fine.
Although you rise where morning fails to shine,
no limescale builds to silt love into crime.
Air freshener bouquets - signatures of grime –
where moist to moist and skin to skin’s a sign:
One flesh, one heart, one red rose that you’re mine,
angelic choirs of snores tone me to rhyme.
No loveseat thrones such warm and comfy clime
and you will always be my Valentine.
I simply need your loving mess each day,
romancing me in passion’s caring way.