Somewhere within your untended hedgerow,
somewhere tufted and leafy, sleeps curled up
a small hibiscus demon, all aglow
with need, like a drunk on rot-gut julep.
Aren’t we like demons; our souls are stingy
with love but underneath we weep for not
being touched, kissed, possessed. Celibacy
is a myth, darling. I know what you thought
that you could live – or at least love – alone.
I shall part your hedge like Moses, go down
into your bower, find that plum-blossom
brute, kiss it awake, watch it gasp and groan,
watch it purr; soothe your pain, smooth your frown.
Love shall make us a threesome.