Poem # 9 Poem with no name

In art I try to capture a moment of poetry, to communicate a way of 'seeing', in poetry, another art, I attempt to distil an 'essence', to communicate something essential, to provide a truth. Visual art and poetry can come from anywhere, the following poem came from a jumble of words on the fridge, constantly rearranged until a narrative appeared. I never gave it a title, hence the title it has.

Poem with no name

Our kind words rose, like the steam
from coffee, between us.
You, a woman, sexy even in a riding suit
of green Harris tweed.
Your head rested on a golden pillow
of hair, as you relaxed on the leather sofa.
Your creamy skin made the tweed
sensual;- Why did you wear it in
our humid climate?

I thought of the stiff woollen fibres
pricking your delicate skin.
My eyes followed the map of your
light freckles, and the fine down on
your arms and the nape of your neck.
There was a W there reminiscent
of your sex;
and I was very sad it was over.