Floozy (poem)

It was the gorse first - caught me off guard - just up from Cwmtydu, on the high path. 

Maybe it was the heady cocktail of pineapple and coconut swirling in my head, or the sharpness of yellow set against the greying crags of the cliff. Either way, the wilds whirled me into a dervish on that windy day in early May.

This was the love of my life until a bright, valiant spirit drew me in. An anarchic fellow - punk-marking the pristine lawns on the estate with his neon spray of spiky petals. 

By next morning, there was an uprising of guerrilla yellows polka’d across the kempt gardens and verges.

In the maple light of the late afternoon sun - the sort of light that romances us all under its skirt - I met the third. 

On a regular week, on a regular drive, I was flagged down on the Talsarn road. I pulled in and melted into a schoolgirl swoon, falling to my knees at the edge of a field buttered gold. 

Unbuckling my sandals, I footsied my way into the bat-lashing grasses and dipped a toe into a tiny golden cup. All of its yellow - every atom of its yellow - drank me up. 

I lifted the trophy to my chin and before long, the button on my blouse popped a ping and I was diving right in. Clothes strewn, sanity hewn and there I was - rolling my way down a field buttered gold, entirely in the nude.

The fourth one swept me clean off my feet - in the gardens of Bodnant. The archway an aisle, the laburnum my tresses and already the answer a thousand yeses to a question yet to be asked. 

Is it possible to fall from flower to flower and give each of them your heart?