Train tracks cut
a path through our lust.
In this war place,
heightened by the fear
of getting caught,
Desire invades imagination,
moving hand to cunt.

In the music of the train wheels,
we follow - centurions
and blue-painted Gaels,
knights and conscripted farmhands.
I plaster your body against
remnants of Roman aqueducts.
Skin breaks against
the pleasure of rough stone.

With eye-holds and hand steps,
feet flexings and cleft kisses,
we become Grrl Joan,
Eleanor of Aquitaine,
and medieval peasant girls,
the last surviving despite
the Right of First Night.

Rites of First Night.
In Celtic times,
fucking consecrated.
Our vaginal juices mingle,
fertilize the fields.
With breasts and bellies,
buttocks, thighs and cunts
we pay homage
to the myriads who have come before.

In this farmplace
desire expands us.
Our rutting becomes
milkmaids, herbalists,
countesses and midwives.
Hands tear in black soil,
burying cravings
to pull out full with
eggplants, carrots and cabbages.
Our appendages entwine,
disentwine, and entwine again.

Becoming branch ends and rootlegs,
we plant ourselves in the field,
bearing Eve-fruit,
fermenting Calvados.