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 .