Sculptor The Poem by John Rickell

If I could sculpt my love,
search for finest porphry,
I would spend my life and carve
fit for Rome or Athens to rival
all that they display, then
weave a coat of finest silk
dyed in purple, rich and royal,
clinging close as skin
to hide you for myself.
Not for you the gaping crowds,
the need to hide your nature
you would sit as oft you do,
thighs relaxed and honest
smiling eyes and mouth,
thoughts, desires as my own.
The Opal and the rose unfurled,
petals soft a stigma at the heart
beckon, tempt my confessing passion
hid beneath the leather of my apron
dusty with the chisel strokes,
as I seek your form within the stone.
Then with all my might and memory
between those thighs so cold and pure
I would spend my days remembering,
know I could not simulate the joy you give,
each fold inscribed upon the stone
sincerely wrought yet cold not warm.
Then discard my conceit and blade
return the stone to whence it came,
to weather in the rain and sun
moulded by a skill more rare
but with a love not less.