In The Holidays

you sprawl across the tired, yellowing blades, and I follow
with an old blanket and a bottle of beer – I rest my head
upon your shoulder and we look for clouds; I steal
cold sips and warm kisses.

the grass is dry and itchy between my toes, there’s been no rain
for weeks. but we make do with old dishwater,
the watering can from the back of the shed: your mum’s roses
are still in full bloom.

hot summer sunsets viewed from the cool
cotton bedsheets, fingers entwined:
you kiss me on my inner thigh as the stars
emerge and the moon lights the room.