THE PICNIC
By Randall Stone
I watch from a distance, observing,
Two hearts so delicately entwined,
Making the sunshine brighter,
The grass on which they sit, greener,
More lush,
He leans slowly forward, his smile, tender,
Genuine,
She meets him half way, her smile radiant,
Her eyes sparkling, glowing with love,
They meet half way, their lips touch,
At first, the kiss is light,,
Like the touch of an angel’s feather,
Against the skin,
They press harder,
Such passion, such undeniable love,
They break away, their eyes still half closed,
She picks up a strawberry from a paper plate,
Dips it gently into thick, white cream,
Her eyes gleaming, she places it to his lips,
A sacrificial offering to her idol of the heart,
Taking it gently between his lips, he bites gently,
He takes a strawberry and repeats the gesture with her,
They meet in the middle once more, their lips touch again,
Ah the sweet sugar they taste on one another,
They part once more,
I watch from a distance, observing,
They could be the last two people on earth,
But each fills the other’s universe,
For them, there is no one else, nothing else,
Their love is everything,
She sees me approach,
She is more beautiful close up, Her bright blue eyes gleaming,
She smiles and the whole world glows,
I return it with one of my own,
Her man nods in greeting,
I am with them, in their bubble of love,
A flash of steel, the sing of a blade,
Her tender throat no defence,
Like pushing a scalpel through butter,
My speed as deadly as ever,
Her eyes huge, pregnant with surprise,
I snatch the blade back,
Ah, the scarlet fountain, I turn to him,
Eyes fogged, slightly unfocussed,
Not quite sure of what he is seeing,
Shock,
A lightening back hand,
I should have been a tennis pro,
The edge of my bloodied blade,
Making an extra mouth beneath his chin,
It yawns ever wider as his head tips back,
I watch them spasm at my feet,
Two floundering fish out of water,
I cannot hold back the grin that stretches my lips,
Blood on the grass,
Red and green should not be seen etc.,
Love, it makes fools of us all. . . .
