Sweet maiden of Bordeaux, lovely as
Precious, priceless wine, how your face haunts me
In cellars of my soul. Out among vines
We met while picking master’s grapes. I ask’d
“Have you tasted them sun-warm’d in fields
Of love’s delight?” “Oh, no we musn’t,” did
You protest, ‘til I popp’d one in your mouth.
“You’re wicked,” you said, and slapp’d me, yet pleas’d.
How many times did we make love in hay
Lofts soft and secure? I was call’d away
And how you cried and said you’d wait for me
How I have wish’d these many nights at sea
That you were here and we in love should be
Receive this billet doux my heart’s long cry
© 2017 David Palmer