And might I weave gold
into your hair
to brighten your eyes?
The scent of bumblebees
with furry backs
and the scent of their bites
with fresh gathered pollen.

And might I pluch
those infinite strains
and flecks of colour from your voice?
All hoarse and no
satin or velveteen
left inside that sound.

But darling must I tear
the armour off your ears?
the key is in the song
they sing in early morning may
an angel sent his golden glow
to sweeten those now-tamed flowers swaying...