And in the mornings we delay
Our getting dressed despite the rush
We pause, admire,
Each other's nakedness.

She is the parabolic wonder
In the curve-path of flocking birds,
The heady scents of the ground I stroll on.
She is the gradient and grace
In the watercolour hills
And the fertile sods of the vale.
She is the steady light, beaming, constant;
The rush of sea
Between sand-dressed toes.
And she is seraphim, heaven clothed, all golden.

He is compassion and the lightest touch,
Warm against my wind-wracked flesh.
He is the cradler of babies,
The banishment of chores,
And the blue-stained lip
From sucking the fountain pen nib.
He is subtleness of gesture;
Scattiness of head;
Believer in Truth, in touch, in the fixed and infinite;
The greatest of embracers.