A Summer Morning, Sydney.

A SUMMER MORNING, SYDNEY

   Opening the bathroom window,
   I can see
   across the alleyway,
   secretly,

   this young woman
   on the edge of her bed.
   Like a stretch of sand
   damply bared

   by flourishing foam,
   when the towel withdraws
   beauty breathes
   through her million pores.

   Shoulders and neck, buttocks and back
   are defined:
   Le Violon d'Ingres
   in outline,

   lightly finished
   by the brush of the sun,
   and dusted with freckles
   like cinnamon.

   I know to turn away,
   and yet I stare
   on a scene as ordinary
   as it is rare.

   It might be an art-class
   where eyes
   trace with a brush
   those breasts and thighs;

   where charcoal, poised,
   sets her waist
   with delicate detachment
   into place;

   and where, discerning
   her left shoulder
   touched a moment by sun,
   minds hold her

   as they are held
   in rapt attention:
   all passion, all yearning distilled
   to calm convention.

   Unaware of me,
   inwardly still,
   she moves in and out
   of the grasp of my will,

   present and elusive
   as the sun,
   who takes her in his arms
   and yet looks on.