Forbidden to touch her hair,

he touches it.

Or does he?

In God's truth I tell you,

the back of my hand

brushed her soft brown curls.

‘“Mine beyond words”’.

Earnest onlookers

may lean over cases

coveting her keepsakes.

‘I have had my thrill for the night.

And a greenstone tiki just doesn't do it for me’.

The poet's sleek words

sound as home-spun as her silken braids.

Oh the tales he tells!

We are spell-bound by

the feel of her hair

in his whispering hands.