Irish Rose
My Love is like a wild, irish rose, her hair orange like the ancient sunsets, her eyes the colour of forbidden emeralds, and her skin, ah her skin: lovely to the touch, soft as down and flecked with gold.
She stands in the doorway, looking at me, her man, and I remember the first time we met, how our hands touched, and then our lips – it were truly love at first sight.
There is fire in her eyes and it makes my heart leap with joy.
Her rose lips move to speak with characteristic passion:
“Ye feckin’ useless man. Will ya not get up off yer arse and take out the garbage like I told yous? Why I didna listen to me old ma, I cannot tell for the life of me!”
My Love is like a wild, Irish rose, her hair red like the ancient sunsets, her eyes the colour of forbidden emeralds, and her skin, ah her skin: lovely to the touch, soft as down and flecked with gold.
She stands in the doorway, looking at me, her man, and I remember the first time we met, how our hands touched, and then our lips – it were truly love at first sight. There is fire in her eyes and it makes my heart want to leap and do a little jig.
“Jimmy O’Connell!” she says, “ye feckin’ useless man. Will ya not get up off yer arse and take out the garbage like I told yous? Why did I not listen to me old ma?”
What a stunning woman pictured here, fitting the story just so. Love her last line!
thanks for the laugh!
Thanks to you both. She certainly is very lovely.
That is a face I can imagine being painted by one of the Old Masters; wonderful photograph, though. The words aren’t half bad, either!
Reminds me of my lovely Irish daughter and her blazing red hair … and your words capture her pretty well, too! Beautifully done, as usual, my friend
Thanks Jinksy.
Tess, I looked through your facebook photo album some time back and think I know the daughter you mean. Thanks for the words.