Deep in the willow wandering wood of bracken
and brackish pools, of cranes and dragonflies,
of sudden movements of mammals and wild fowl,
in the sweet wet water flowing over her white toes
she stood in a crinoline shift lifted high to her thigh
and her mirth rippled over the lapping waves.
The Harlot hem ran dark like blood with the stream
but she didn’t flow away in the green willow solitude.
Her pink flesh rolled like hours over her breast,
her hips, to her soles immersed in diamond water.
Pebbles of green and grey and gold dashed her feet
and the dappled sun caressed her flaming hair.
Pale was her pinkness, crimson was the depth
of her heart beating deep beneath the delicate
orbs of her bosom. And my hands of dry calico
longed for the longitude of her silk, the latitude
of the pert pristine pearl-whiteness of her breasts.
Long had I traversed the land, long had my tongue
carried a thirst for the succour her sweet wet thighs
could slake. So I waited for my moment of sensuous
seduction in the rainbow meadow beyond the brook.
But a snapping twig sundered my dream-like mirage,
the visage of ecstatic beauty, and I roused resting
against the bough of a sweeping, lethargic willow.
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