I watched her move amongst the sculptures,
slowly but chaotic,
through the wintry garden
gently stroking the ripe curves,
palming the patina with long, slim fingers.
Had she been naked and still,
sat upon their chiselled flanks,
a new lithe goddess
I would have smiled and bid her come.
But all too briefly she turned to call,
to chide the cold autumn air,
thus the magical muse was stolen,
a captive of the twilight.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2012
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