Where are the words, the words
that capture Love,
those consummate words
that realise the heart,
not idealise, no, not idolise, not
overblow,
yet not shrink wrap,
no,
not plain wrapper rap
but rapture-refract,
white stripe into glory of Roy G. Biv –
where are those words,
where do they live?

If I offered you
concealed in my hands
yin-eyed fledgling
plumed sparrow-plain,
head - pebble-smooth,
eyelash of beak,
south bank of a river,
north side of a hill
would you guess
the true worth?

I think that you would.

Should she then choose
to tapestry with tune,
stitch sky artistry
like a true prodigy,
a Midsummer Night's
Mendelssohn-dreaming,
mesmerising perfection
in extemporizing 
till the whole world hushed
to hear her trill,
if I managed that, would it
capture Love, dear?

I doubt

that it would.