You and I met on summer’s sunny morning
Where sunflowers dance in zephyr,
And, swirling round, the fae
In yellow skirts, soft as magpie’s feather,
Are always upwards soaring.
Amongst the fields of plenty,
As clouds made the sun remnant,
You picked a cadmium bouquet,
And looked to me with resentment;
I, at you, with contempt, my hands, empty.