You turn
and gaze down
at Ness
by the stream,
her back bent,
her arm pecking
at the canvas
like a hungry bird.
You remember one like her,
the long hair
down the back,
the eyes
a piercing blue,
the mouth sensual,
full of words.
She has that sensuality
you fear, mistrust and lack.
You let your eyes
move over
her figure
like a sculptor,
smoothing out,
feeling the rough
and smooth, sensing
the secret places
where darkness looms,
easing out sharpness
and unwanted pieces.