Comments about Denise Woodhouse
From among the silver birches
Backed by a low sun
Come the young men.
All dark beauty, full lips.
They glide downhill,
Golden and lime lit leaves
Wind machined through their jet set hair.
Sprayed on jeans, a glimpse of shirt
Revealing perfected pectorals.
We are in no doubt
About what we want.
Our point of view spins round,
For nothing here is earthbound.
And from some other trees
Unfurl the light bright teen angels,
All airbrushed, fluttering, with jutting hips.
White silk runs like rain after drought
Over breasts and knees, ...