Cubits
By Paul Cameron Brown
A woman is a trough
hardly that-a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.
A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.
Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping-
a plane dusting crops.
A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core-
a marshmellow for a heart.