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Ondine

Liquid underskirts, a moiré dress, a river couture,
clothed and unclothed she sees, she feels,
wrapped and unwrapped in the flow
turned over and over, streamed and posed,
washed and lifted, pushed and floated.
Baptised , named Ondine, dreamed of,
dishevelled, she will not hold still:
she coils and twists and unfurls,
she lives in her disarrayed hair,
loosened like purling silk.
Wet strands trailed across my mouth.
In water she pirouettes,
through water she rises,
the luminous currents glide in her head
with black ringlets for drowning,
with wet mouths for breathing and kissing.
She opens her legs to the flood,
we stand behind her and push upstream
through weirs and waterfalls,
tanneries and laundries,
mills and sluices and glistening locks.
She opens her face to each lascivious caress,
she opens her eyes in a rapture
of droplets and mirrors and days full of light.

Steve Bucknell. 08.06.14.

Oooh merci, thank you.
It is incredible, it is like you where there... like if you knew my village by heart... mills taneries and laundries ... it is exactly that.

it is beautiful to me, thank you again Steve

Merci beaucoup, Dominique!

all i had in mind while i was working on the photos, is in your poem ... like if you where in my eyes, i feel like i have won the bingo :D

Oh, blimey!