by Valentine Bonnaire c. March 2013 email@example.com
Roving the heavenly hills of our visage, in the soft green valley of Spring. Pink sprouted pillows rising on the littlest Bleeding Heart. This land gleams with emerald fur, and quaint wildflowers peppering pleasure as their scents envelop us past the bare cobbles of the village. Alive with song we dance down the street. Birds hum our arrival, seasoned.
Youth skips by the sad mean man bent over a little table, bitter at his losses quaffing his pint of hatred.
Patrick of the shamrocks smiles, as we clasp hands into a little run and skip. The old barn awaits us in the field, just past the river’s narrows. So green it is today under shimmered sun, the light glancing off his curved lips, that tarry long at mine. Sainted in the scented hay of the loft, as we couple. We of the green hearts, of youth spellbound, our eyes betrothed. He that watches over us in witty wonderment, in twinkled eye of merriment. The gleam in his fresh old eyes never lost.
We in the hay, wee couplings chanced, the worsted roughs of the jackets we spread. The barn alive with our cries at the finish, heated heather heaving heavenward.