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.