Dora Wright

Baked to Perfection

His hands leave a trace of flour
where he touches me,
my face, my neck, my shoulders
later I shall look at them
and remember how skilful he was
a master of his craft

On the floor next to my clothes
his baker’s white’s lie discarded
our passions rise without the need for yeast
proving by the moment
shapes and forms
merging into one

Copyright © Dora Wright  2018


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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