Fluid as a Hokusai wave,
this blushing Granite.
Wind-worn, Mica-clad curves.
Solid and sensual-
An athlete’s thighs.
Yet so maddeningly quixotic!
A draughtsman’s Midnight doodles.
Speech-bubbles from a comic, with only one phrase looming:
‘Are we real’? Grinning Sphinx mouths mock replies.
Who care’s, when they’re so beautiful?
Even their make up exotic. Feldspar: now there’s a word.
As precious as a rare spice.
I want to curl up and sleep in those cradling shapes.
Peaceful, on Sun-warmed flanks.
Copyright Tom Tide 2017