that august afternoon beneath the sycamore

our hammock was a gossamer cocoon,

and we two kittens, tanglefully curled

together beneath elegantly gleaming

limbs of trees. and we sucked on lemon

without sugar, and talked till we were drowsy.



the hammock swayed so lovely-lazy, drowsy

among the rustly leaflings of the sycamore.

your hair smelled of frankincense and lemon

as it goldenly blew around us, a cocoon

of silk, and hid your eyes, though I knew their gleaming

as I knew the way your sweetest smile curled.



our thoughts were wandered, curious and curled,

the nonsense-talk of children who are drowsy.

why is the sky so blue, the moon so gleaming,

and what if I were queen? the sycamore

was hushful as we lay in our cocoon

and talked about the queen, and ate our lemon.



and do you think she drinks her tea with lemon,

and does she sleep sprawled out, or closely curled

with velvet covers for a rich cocoon?

is she allowed to yawn when she feels drowsy

and has she ever climbed a sycamore

or seen a duck-pond rippulously gleaming?



poor queen, we said, her pretty castle gleaming,

but if only she could come and share our lemon

and lie and daydream underneath the sycamore,

and be happy-free and not so scaredly curled.

and then we forgot what we were talking of, for drowsy

thoughtfulness caught us in its warm cocoon.



you said I love you and I felt a cocoon

of warmth enwrap me, fill me up with gleaming

and I beamed a smile though my eyes were drowsy.

you kissed me and it tasted like a lemon

and we both made sour faces as we curled

our fingers tight together round the sycamore.



now sycamore leaves and lemon drops remind me always

of a swaying cocoon on a drowsy august day

when the answer to all things lay curled within your gleaming eyes.