Brunette Poem by Mark Heathcote

His hand touches those free-flowing robes
That falls to the floor like a spent rose
Strewn aside where a moonbeam adobes
She lay on her bed with both eyes closed.

Hopeless as a meandering vine
Restless down a wooden banister
His fingers interlocked and entwined.
They redefined each silky parameter.

He sensed her earlobes now attuned
That last throbbing motion and sound.
The hairs on her neck no longer importuned
Ground basement needs icebound.

Hopeless she lingered, like a fly in a web,
And even bit his lower lip scarlet red.
Switching the tables, she planned them wed.
Now wasn't she a hot, hot brunette?