A Play In Progress, But Of Troths Poem by james watkin

A play in progress, but of troths.
A game, but with affections.
One, a tree ringing, pinch-quickened round.
Of other's dress-tugged actions.

Pure music the candours, clean aired.
Giggle-lauding, far filth's grin.
Love's sweeter day, as leapt-timed in
Light hand-clasps; lighter kissing.

These gentle disquiets in the heart
Are stormings, pant on pant, of
What no less shows, intemperate
As drives a butterfly-love.