Tryst

Night comes, bluebell-scented and leads you
through your window to the woods
where the May tree makes its own galaxies

and when a kiss and laughter lay us
in a crush of wild garlic
and you gaze up, do you wonder 

whose messenger the black-eyed owl is 
still and staring down
as the moon rises and falls between your legs

Published in Ink Drinkers’ Poetry, Issue 3, ‘Siren’, 2021