Nervous Lyre

with her eyes smiling back at his furtive glances, she swishes and flings ebony hair forward over her left shoulder, revealing such lovely neck and nape, and, with a towel, she lazily caresses her wet tresses; turning her head, she twists the carefree sliver of hair, and, hurriedly, wrung water meanders down her neckline; her throat, casts a crystalline silhouette against a red sky; freed from her grip, her locks fall and sway to the rhythmic rolling of waves in a black sea, windswept, driven so far away; mustering again the courage to gaze at her, he is stunned by her downcast eyes that only sharpen her bewitching profile, turning his guts into delicate strings of a very nervous lyre !