Pleasure Is Poem by Nicholas Windle

Pleasure is.
So sweet the seasons sounds,
That makes for those summer days.
Skies make for a back dropp of hues of blue,
Sweet mowing grass now sheared as hay.

Upon my face the beads of perspiration,
As I wipe my fevered brow.
The days now long as I swing forth the scythe,
High above the sun beats down.

A shout breaks my concentration,
For it is Mary who is my love.
Under a large oak tree she shelters,
Truly a pure vision from above.

For with her a wicker basket,
Its contents now lay out before.
She beckons me come forward,
Asl my senses cry out for more.

In her tender arms my head gently lies,
Beneath a canopy of green.
Dappled sun light highlights her flowing hair,
For the world id trade, for these moments gleaned.

©N. Windle.2009