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.