Mystere

She will not reveal her identity,
or show her face to a curious world,
except for a brief glimpse, in a mirror
or a fragmented image here and there.

The lone suitor must prowl among the trees,
praying for a flash of bright clothing that
would signify his prey is moving near,
gracefully on foot or astride her horse.

Lying in wait, telephoto lens bared,
a sudden crunch of gravel and white flash
flushes him from his hide as Mercedes
clad, she wings by to some assignation.

Darkness falls, and worried night-jars chatter;
the stars peep out, soon to be covered by
moonlit clouds drifting over chimney pots,
where a few lights gleam behind ancient glass.

Waking to dawn's fog filtered misery,
a car door clunks and the house doors bang shut,
too late for even the slightest glimpse of
his elusive quarry who remains discrete.

Where the noble cheek and the merry eye
that struck the errant heart with deadly fire?
That convex geometry of beauty glimpsed
but once must now remain a mystery.