Cubits

A woman is a trough
hardly that - a river,
a pond to sail a small boat thru,
rapids to manoeuvre.

A woman commandingly tall
receptive as water,
quicksilver to the light
yet mirages all.

Two cubits to an arm's length
a bridge to span,
virgin territory with
the compass needle jumping -
a plane dusting crops.

A woman once, parchment twice
warm treacle to the core -
a marshmellow for a heart.