Thistles

It came to morning and we were both baptised,
Rolled in thistles of forbidden joy,
Dazzled by sunrise. Sorrows deferred,
Choosing to cherish the fleeting ache of love.

When later we stood, empowered, exalted
If a little bruised by the smear of words,
We crouched and wrote our names in the sand,
Knowing the tide would wash them both away.