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

Advertisements

About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s