He called her Clare.
She was pear-shaped, his favourite fruit,
the image of her mother, fire red hair
slow, special smile, skin so fair
and mannerisms and an attitude to boot.
He called her Clare
and no other woman could begin to compare!
With her budding breasts and grown-up shoes
she was the image of her mother. Fire red hair
cut to precision with style and flair,
how could he resist her? this temptress? confused
he called her, “Clare!”
Watched her, stood on the stair
(and above the mantle, observing, mute
the image of her mother). She had fire red hair
down below. Delicate, perfect everywhere,
his little girl bruised in her birthday suit.
He only called her Clare.
She was the image of her mother.