Two Sonnets
Myth
In Welsh mythology, Blodeuwedd, a beautiful woman made from flowers,
was the unfaithful - and doomed - wife of Lleu Llaw Gyffes.
My Blodeuwedd was made by magicians
And though she was never the fairest in the land
It really didn't matter: to me she was all
There could ever be and why would I forget
That one time we danced and sang together
'You ain't a beauty but hey you're alright'
And kissed all clumsy in the taut middle
Of a hen-night deep down in Shepherds Bush?
My Blodeuwedd was made from the flowers
Of the oak of our shared childhood and the flowers
Of the broom of our losses and the flowers
Of the meadowsweet of our soon-gone joy.
That last afternoon in Woolworths she smiled
The tulip smile of Rita Hayworth in mum's Picture Show.
Booty!
You don't pronounce the 't', or at least
we didn't, not till the cold glottal stop
of maturity sentenced our wide eyes to blink.
We loved them and for a while they were all:
Sweet, stained sogs of triumph and imperfection,
holy shags of mud, slow and quick and forever,
splashes in autumn streams as thorns sucked blood
from arms; yes we'd boast and shout and bounce,
Tiggers trailing tired boots into giggling water,
wet socks, wet feet, anointed, until girls arrived
with twists and tease and hope and it was
the 't's' in sweetheart that became silent.
But a dry old hippy sang our liquid song just now
and he's so right, love: you come like warm rain.