The pink flowers of the honeysuckle rise
Like crocuses in springtime from the green
Like eager maidens wanting to   be seen
As sunshine glitters on their shapely thighs.

Too much sun has made them over-bold
They’re at risk of suffering from their  desperate joy.
For all the rain and clouds made them annoyed;
They must be fertilised or  die  before they’re old.

This   fierce  sun makes me a melting splodge
A lick of  oil paint mixed and uncomposed.
Who was this artist; what did she propose?
And will this portrait in  her  memory lodge?

As flowers will inevitably die
They do not lose by hurling up their joys.
But should we  women imitate their ploys?
For we might live in shame, though we defy

Each child of nature   feels the touch of sun.
Some stretch out in joy while others run.
If you   vacillate  and never choose,
She who  chooses has the least to lose .