flibbertigibbets
on pulpits,
lucid with bliss,
gold, crimson and chartreuse,
a tricky weave
in thatched looms,
chirps tuned
to dulcet grace,
coy as they syncopate,
fragile as a drizzle
of satyrids,
murmur of aria, whirl
and frond.
fantasia of mince,
lilt-borne chimes,
troupe
of felicity,
young as breeze,
buoyant with glee,
irresistible
aerial
delectable
playful
flight.
Chris Crittenden writes from a struggling fishing village, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. He is pretty well published.
