In the warm noon breeze, she sits.
Cassava leaves swaying gently,
Memories dancing in her vision,
As her sights are set,
The kaleidoscope of memories…
Was it not the week before?
The week before in his Sunday best,
Before her he stood…
Just like all the times before,
She smiled, blushed and giggled.
It was different this time.
For he had gradually,
Chipped away her resistance,
Worn down her walls,
And planted the seed.
You know, ‘I like you’ she had said.
He had gloried,
In her eventual acknowledgement of him.
This queen, who turned away all others…
With a flick of her wrist, was finally his.