Mark Heathcote (22/03/66 / Manchester)
Who but could—the saints, resist her...
Here; alone lying on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets do me gaze and camphor and shadow...
Never a dull moment does the heart repent:
Her fragrance, what; a promiscuous, allure.
Such elicit essences spring ajar the dart...
What an art this palpable kiss velour.
How it courses through my head and lonely heart...
Then swept-on bye with brocades of flower
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honey-suckle,
Vine; twisting around, the Lover's Lane Larkspur.
Who in the world could be gleeful, yet; still bashful?
Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her.
Maybe; only the "Morning Star her goddess sister".
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