Bath

I watch you bathe and

wondering if any man could be so gentle,

could anticipate the lines, the shapes, the form,

allow for the textured blush of your curves.

The water spills so freely from your cupped hands

tumbling naturally as if from stone to stone

rinsing folds, leaving no trace.

Then you stand to face me,

rivulets disperse with erratic errand

and you are wondrously dry,

warmly perfumed.

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019