It's Still Life

To Wake in the Middle of Ages

Oh, to those renaissance spies
of wit and disguise, who hid
in their fruit’s finest perfumes.
Who hid in overripe stains of
grapes, soiling their fine textiles.

They churned earth underfoot,
and kissed the soles of feet.
Spread thoughts that shook
the jowls, and kept their
secrets clamped-shell shut.

Spies in the grass and eyes
in the trees. An old world left
in the past, and cast into dark.
Oh, to those spies who fell off
their stone horses, as they slept
off fruit’s finest perfumes.

 
©️ Misky 2019. Miz Quickly’s 6 July prompt