Sometimes I contemplate an end of such perfection
that I wonder how it's possible.
Yesterday, inching in traffic towards Glasnevin,
en route to the Botanic Gardens,
we were passed and re-passed repeatedly
by a woman possessed of just such
a startling and wonderful shape,
who flowed perundulating in the
fleeting Summer sunshine,
stirring my thickening blood,
rousing my unregenerate brain-stem,
and giving me a choice:
I could simply thank God
for having lived to see it,
or park the car,
kiss the wife and kids goodbye,
draw a ragged line across my life,
and step out.
This time, I stayed in the car,
thank God,
and went on to contemplate the equally perfect,
but less disturbing, Echeveria elegans.
It's a curious thought that one E. elegans
is as elegant as the next,
whereas ends vary so much;
age might well wither, but custom certainly cannot stale
their infinite variety.
My beloved's passions mirror mine,
in both innocence and character,
but where, on this occasion, mine's resisted,
her's is not. She soon succumbs
to taking slips, at the peril
of her soul, her liberty, and my peace.
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