I come in from the garden
attempting to curb weeds
see you through
the open window
nude
bathwater still clinging
to your skin
combing the flames
of your long wet hair
as if you were
a siren
in a famous painting
that just happened
to be hanging there
in mid-air
singing to yourself.
You always had this habit
of becoming art
where ever you were
whatever you did.
My own private gallery
that no millionaire could afford.
I approached your singing
enchanted
my heart tied to the mast.
You looked up
and smiled
'Hello, love! '
My heart leapt
overboard
and swam to you
drowning with love.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/siren-song-5/
