After Love
He lies
small boy naked,
fists curled into foetal paws
his belly pale,
frog smooth.
He smells of tea tree
fresh sweat
and loam,
a river bank odour
of dark undergrowth.
He lies
shyly furred,
tufted toes
buoying in waterbed sleep.
Wheat stubble cheeks
hollowed,
sun burn vee
a fiery arrow at throat,
eyes pooled beneath
restless skin.
Joy Reid
If you've any comments on her poems, Joy Reid
would be pleased to hear from you.
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