Busy about a field of buttercup. Moaning—summer’s day in after summer’s day out—of droning about. Of his and his co-workers' lot in life. His dutiful dirge little consoled by rationed nectar reward.
Desire bores into wistfulness, morphing it to intent; something in a foreign field calls—lone flower; its viola-descent indigo vibrance whets his lust and his five 'UV-seeing' eyes.
Pure purple allure.
Kicking clumps from hairy knees, a oneway flight to destiny's meadow. To feast till full in sugar-mummy’s sweeter nectaries by day, enwrapped in furred leaf by night.
at last a memory...