The Yellowglen is on ice, Margaret Roadknight
On the tapedeck, the figs are encrusted
With marscapone and coffee crystal.   She comes
To my door in purple   in black   in buttons
That will undo in pleasure unfolding.
Talk is of ex's and travel and grandkids but
Eyes are devouring as glasses empty and
Figs crunch between teeth, dribble down chin
Suck the flesh from the mango stone, savour
The spicy skin of the chicken breast
Will the meal never end?
The warm room the warm sea of desire
A perfect night for a drowning.

© Ray Tyndale