In purple glade of green nightshade
the sun sings in the foxglove bell;
the foxglove bell a hanging well;
invading these the sleepy bees
sip and hum.

By purple spotted river brink,
she and he, not content to watch the bee,
having other things to do, to see,
summer kisses, one, two, three;
both agree to leave the bee
content to drink.

Warmed by love's seductive sun
she allows the slow undress
and buzzing bees applaud the slow caress;
the pleasure process nectary access.
Oh that's so lovely-lovely breathes the breeze;
a curlew cries and it is done.

Summer gone, another summer come;
pennycress and pepperwort, pimpernel
and foxglove bell,
and there upon this meadow sweet
of calling birds and pollen-scented bees,
beneath the shade of singing trees,
sleeps the tiny infant son.

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