Niamh Clarkson
Your crafted lavender fumigates my room.
Makes it hard to breathe,
Makes me long for what’s underneath.
Your spiralling words of violet
And how I so desire it.
My heart flutters at the thought of your words.
The true wanting of me,
Hidden there – plain for all to see.
Your pleasure and desire
And how I would be so willing to be supplier.
What if it fell to the floor – wrong way up.
Your words, finally, let slip.
The constant drip
Of ink upon my floor.
Oh, how I’d adore.
The Hull Scribbler 