passionflower

She is my precious passionflower,
my rare, romantic rose.
Beneath a blissful, Beltane bower
she glamorously grows.

But I'll not pick; I’ll idolise,
appreciate and praise,
I’ll eulogise and poetise
her gleaming goddess gaze.

She is my pretty passionflower,
my lotus in the mire.
No season’s savage, squalid shower
will dampen my desire.

And I don’t deem it dutiful
an all-night watch to keep.
Since she’ll be being beautiful
while I'm still sound asleep

Then when I wake, whate’er the hour,
she’ll still stand there serene:
my mild, majestic passionflower,
my faithful, floral queen!