LINGERIE:

The innocent purity of sweet camisole in cream soft lace,

In broderie-anglaise & crisp white cotton for virginal face,

The becoming of a woman, with those new budding breasts,

Leaving behind those itchy, grey & very dull school-girl vests.

The buddings bloom & soon become those sweet pink roses,

Kissed with transparent lips of cyan, lilacs & pale primroses,

Cami-knickers in watered satin, dainty lace & soft French silk,

Caressing inside thighs, as soft as the cream of moonlight milk.

Corsets beribboned, stays & frilly brassiers in cups of A, B & C´s,

Fishnets, bows, zips & butterflies, negligees that titillate & tease,

Black transparent stockings & those with the silky line up the back,

Leading to heaven´s door & for fumbling hands, mapping the track.

Cheeky little suspenders that chatter, slap, click & eventually snap,

Push up bras, the filled in, the low-cut & also the ones with no strap,

The garters, warm, inviting & shown, then ripped off & casually tossed,

The crystal, scarlet, & black, the plain, the embroidered & embossed.

Time goes & spreads, as does the belly, thighs & those crawling hips,

The elastic loosens & soon it all loses it hold & lets go of its iron grip,

And our lingerie morphs into sad beige bloomers down to the knees,

Pulled up over thick old tights to keep out fingers & the icy cold freeze.

And as we spend our last days rocking away in our old rocking chair,

We remember way back to those long lost days, to our very first pair,

Of those sensuous silken stockings, those ones embracing the thigh,

And in our decline we curse our old age & softly, sadly & wistfully sigh.