Blossom

By Emma Wells

Delicate as ageing skin

lining springtime boughs

in floods of floral virginity,

arms of innocence,

untouched, unreachable

(except for the breeze)

bloom bountifully, reaching –

high –

for sun rays,

breathing fauna richness.

Apple, plum and pear

creep from green shelters

like soldiers from trenches

in melancholic March

eager to paint-splat

wintery greys,

blocking prior monotony

with candy-stripe glee

and sugar rush highs.

Cherry, blackthorn, hawthorn

weave palette pathways,  

stitching arterial limbs:

coursing new life

runs from hedges, scrubland

to fancier, elysian plains

where excitement beats

as hearts of runaway lovers,

casting lines apart

from damning disapproval.

I search for blossom…

scanning tree lines

for fine down

as fledgling feathers;

awaiting small white flowers:

unravelling swans

grown from signets

embroidered by hands of time.

Blossom curls around my finger

as a promise;

curlicues of peony-pink

skip from late May branches,

giggling girlishly

as chains form like daisies

forging floral sisterhoods.