May

i’m settled atop the panes of the finicky fan,

the room swirls and i swivel out of the way,

i sit atop the finicky fan,

and ponder on a past gone by,

as my people have done.

-

we could be the white butterflies of may,

and hide underneath the leaves,

we could shimmy up the thick trunks of may,

and tread lightly ‘round hissy monkeys

we could lay on the warm moss of may,

and buzz with bees

we could abdicate in may,

and lay down a white rose

you could be the last raindrop of may,

and graze my face one last time.

you must believe the wisdom of may,

and i’ll believe only you.

-

the butterflies will be messengers

the tree trunks will be cinnamon bark

the moss an oasis,

the roses, my life.

be the last raindrop of may

be the very last thing to touch my face

believe only may

and ill believe only you.

31/05/2026