Long and lithe fingers,
comfort moulded into cones,
is where art kisses geometry
and meets one of its own.
Her hands are to touch
manicured and glazed,
you feel home and lost
a Pharaoh now, and next a waif
The nails, you find and wonder
filed for a student and trimmed.
Not a wisp of colour
bare as a bone, naked and skinned.
Snug in a life song,
a pallbearer of untold griefs,
they are a stark sight
of colourless coral reefs.
On but a blue moon,
they’re a savoury rare,
when hungry eyes feast
on the riotous fair.
Why, one day, I ask thee?
She would smile and wouldn’t tell.
‘Never felt like’,
is her No Comment.