Your beauty does not rest in your body
or in your face or any other place
or in the manner of your hot embrace
(although they are its part-epitome).
Neither does it lie in your clothing schemes:
sweet floral printed dresses, clogs in black,
Doc Martin lookalike lace-ups (thick-track)
nor sleek long evening dresses made of dreams.
Such things are tokens of your beauty’s art —
some facets of a diamond’s surface scan
or lesser details from a painting’s span —
warm showers (not a deluge) on my heart.
For though your beauty bursts like buds through earth
no single flower’s scent tells its full worth.
© 2012, Alan Morrison