By Judith Buckingham
There is, I think,
A decadence in cherry bloom.
Too much white, too much innocence,
Begs for corruption:
The floribunda too, too thickly spread . . .
Fill your eyes, your arms, your heart . . .
And the delicate blush at the petal’s base –
Ah, yes, the base:
That promise of flesh,
Never, quite
Fulfilled.