I walk the streets,
rambling among neatly lined houses
the colour of pastels,
like ice-cream in cones,
relished on hot summer nights.
I have to curb my desire to knock on a door
and invite myself in,
especially the welcoming bright and festive one,
in candy-floss pink.
It is the sort of home you’d bring pretty cakes to,
if you visited,
(Victoria Sponge, covered in strawberries
dripping with whipped cream)
or on special occasions,
something charming like a blossoming Orchid,
or a China teapot,
the kind that has pink roses painted on it.
Perhaps I’d bring the Chablis,
or better yet Champagne
- yes definitely Champagne
and we would air kiss each other on the cheeks
but have deep, meaningful conversations
until the light fades and
I leave, satiated and content.
I walk further along
under a canopy of trees.
There is a lingering smell of pollen in the air