The winds may sweep forth and cry,
And moods a-wuthering, it is no lie.
The spirit dances, free and twirled,
Yet Dreaming of a Sensual World.
Our Lionheart doesn't yearn for much,
Just a Moment's Pleasure with her touch.
Oh such beauty, in such truth,
Melancholic of old and youth,
Song of love, swagger and joy,
Yet tender silk of conflicted coy.
Symphony of Clouds, disguise and ruse,
Wowing with Hounds and dancing Shoes.
Running on Gaffa with teasing smirk,
Yet Lionheart! He treasures her Work.
A tailor of velvet tones she sews,
A poet of being: ourselves she knows,
Our Lionheart reaches for the Pin to Push,
For mystical & knowing, unattainable Bush.
(Dedicated to Lord of the Lucans)