Waiting For Rain (Poetry)

How could we doubt Miss Goode was pure
with blouse so crisp, her glance demure,
soft lashes lowered in defence
of modesty and innocence ?

Who dared imagine her pale skin
flushed pink with passion, smouldering,
chaste limbs uncovered, hair unloosed,
rare virtue recklessly seduced ?

It’s clear those lips remained unkissed
throughout the Sixties and she missed
out on the ‘Make Love Not War’ scene,
intactus — virginally clean.

Her snowy sheets stayed quite uncreased,
denied libido unreleased,
her bra unburned, her knee-length hem
unmoved by liberation’s whim.

She saved herself — unwooed, unwed,
while zones erogenous stretched dead
as deserts through the drought’s long wait
for floods to thrill them, stimulate

their untouched contours, tweak the bud
that nestled, dormant, turn to mud
the dust bowl of her loveless bed
and let her blossom — bold and red.