(An observation of beauty).
You lie on the sofa with the effortless elegance
of a fin de siècle Duchess,
bare feet up, crossed, like a vicar’s calm hands at prayer.
Even the stripes on your untied dressing gown
slope perfectly, draping down
as liquor running from the upturned bottle onto the floor.
The untidy newspaper fails to crackle in your hands,
whilst you read with a considered finger resting atop your lip
as if choosing a delicacy from an offered box.
Occasionally an un-deciphered comment is allowed its flight,
only to fall short, exhausted, halfway across the rug.
Picasso might have placed you there
but I have not the inclination or the talent
to do you justice .
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