Angel (Poetry)

The light seems fascinated by her face
and moulds its contours — silvers faultless skin —
the merest hint of dimple, shy and chaste,
her innocence slow-burning, deep within.
Madonna-like, she gazes quite untouched
by agencies that sully and corrupt.

Who took two eyes; a mouth; a chin; a nose
and so arranged them that they stop the hearts
of all who look upon her — even those
who have no soul or empathy with Art?
How could two lips provoke with guileless ease
a host of men brought, smitten, to their knees?

They hang on her a fantasy, a dream
of womanhood — mysterious and fey —
invest her with a sanctity supreme,
her image now an angel of today.
Impossible perfection caught and framed,
her smile a gift, her purity unfeigned.