To a daughter growing up
from
A father growing down


On a rock by the harbour were
Esztella Barbara
And a mirror
For doing her face.
No mermaid so beauteous
Had ever made such a fuss
In that wet, foamy
Stony old
Place.

From a mile you could smell
The scent of Estelle
A perfume
Full fruity and
Rare.
In the whole of that harbour is
The aroma of strawberries,
Of apple,
Banana and
Pear.

What a colourful splash is
The hue of her eyelashes
Her dad knows
Her shadow's
Just so.
Her blush is applied,
By a brush, late supplied
By an elderly
Lady she
Knows.

A comb made of ivory
Her locks does divide, for she
Draws each tooth
Both lovingly
And long
Not a hair out of place
Will distemper her face
(But that perfume's - Gosh! -
Exuding
A pong).

Around our young maiden
Are maidservants, laden
With jewellery,
Gewgaws
And knick-knacks,
She's adorned with the lot
- Bracelets, anklets, what-nots -
...And she's sucking a couple of tic-tacs.

Our Esztella's a Queen
And you know where she's been
By the trail
Of savours
Surrounding her
But nicer than scent
Is her sweet temperament
And - the best -
the kindnesses
That abound in her.


Written on August 12 and 13, 1997 by a desperate father.