Never a fan of mustard:
mustard-colored walls
smell of old laundromats.
The squirts, the stains,
the polyester prints.
Mustard is the condiment
of the seventies.
But pedaling past rape seed fields
feathery and warm,
the yellow of emoji smiles,
a smell of sweet spice
like a cup of chai tea,
the blending of bushy
heads, soft and tufted,
fields of fluffy gold
beckoning bikers-
dismount,
lie down,
and roll around
in happiness.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Would love to experience that field. Looks soft and inviting. Well penned.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. You will have to find some fields nearby and go for a roll in them.
LikeLike
I love the colour of rape, it just feels so optimistic. We have it in the field behind us, it is beautiful when the sun joins in.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Very true. It’s fuzzy in all the right ways.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Well written. Loved the line about mustard being the condiment of the seventies.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Hobbo. The fields make me want to go back and experience the full mustard immersion. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like this very sensuous poem, rich and inviting; I can hear Donovan’s ‘Mellow Yellow’ playing in the background 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ooh, yes, great pairing, John, and thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person