She moves in fury,
For she is what fires are made of.
Heart-warming, luscious and yet so fiery.
She smells of stormy afternoons,
Thunder rattling over rocky seas -
Passionate, raw and raging.
She reads like poetry
Not free-flowing verse.
Mysterious, lyrical and just a little beyond grasp.
She tastes of spring mornings -
Land-awakening and fresh
With a hint of something new in the air.
She is the darkness before every storm,
The bright light before every sunset,
And the smell of earth after every rain.
She, is a woman, of her own world.
