It should be framed by waterfalls that dress
a gentle flow from hair to salmon pink
the cooling flutter of a summer’s afternoon
of eating strawberries in long grass, no shoes,
no socks, just sharing sips and juicy drips,
red rivers slip down chins.
That hem was born to twist
from side to side in Twenties bars,
spats and combs,
a little something for the weekend
admiring from the shadows
by the wall.
It is the Riviera, Camelot,
the Cotton Club,
a hotel room at lunchtime
dropping to the floor to form
the crumpled lipstick ‘O’
from which you step.
It is the queen of dresses, most divine
brings out the devils and the angel
for a look, and may I say,
does you justice.