He wandered through the glade
just as Ostara's moon ascended
restless with desire's
insomnia - not out of choice

And in the cedar's shade
he felt his willpower transcended
for like slowly-twisting fire
it came again - that haunting voice.

Who is she that sings
with tongues of slow-ascending angels
with enticing mermaid lips
with beckoning in every note?

Who is she that sings
with voice of witches and archangels
with the power to beach tall ships
with Cupid fawning at her throat?

He searched the olive grove
and still it seemed further away
still beckoning and taunting
ghostly, sensuous and round,

And where the shepherd drove
his meagre flock through grass and hay
and further still. The voice kept haunting
with its richly-female sound.

Who is she that sings
with notes of slow-caressing fingers
with a wicked wanton, wilful,
nether-knowledge of a man?

Who is she that brings
a sultry resonance, that lingers
with a breath subtle and skilful
as only a woman can?

He searched the village square
and there he pondered - what a woman
who can utter such a sound
as turns a man to molten snow!

It was much louder there
- and there she was - a washerwoman,
silver-haired and very round,
rubbing a pumice on her toe.

© Sara L. Russell, 01:25 06/06/02

I had the idea for this poem just before going to bed and it took over an hour to write because of the complex rhyming pattern...