Seated on blue tribal patterns
She plays his body moving fingers
From his sacrum upwards, along
His spine to his neck and down
Again over his shoulders onto his biceps
His pale skin an astronomical map
Made of moles and freckles under
Her hands, a graceful touch of potency
Releasing tension relaxing muscles
Stretching nerves shooting messages
Of relief to his brain as he indulges
Eyes closed while she,
Gazes far where her sight allows her
Through ray-ban glasses under
A panama hat and beyond the lake
To the green hills caressed by gentle breeze
Where canadairs pour the water they stole
From the basin over the flames of blazing fire,
And as I follow the motion of her fingertips
I realise myself to have become,
For a moment at least, an unexpected voyeur.
[Featured painting: Massage Fingers by Anna Kozyreva]