For a more classical touch

For a more classical touch

Beneath the olive boughs, where sunlight kissed the stone, She sat, her vision fair, with hair like spun moonlight.

A basket by her side, with threads of amethyst shining, A tapestry unfurled, a tale her needle might.

He came, a sculptor young, with eyes that held the sea, his brow etched with a dream, a marble heart to free.

He saw her, breath held captive, in that charmed reverie. A blush on her cheek, a whispered symphony.

"Fair maiden," voice like music, "may I your presence grace? Your beauty rivals roses; your smile is a sunlit space."

She smiled, a tremor running, a blush upon her face. "Kind sir, my work awaits; its pattern I embrace."

He lingered, mesmerized, by fingers swift and light, leaving a world of wonder in the fading afternoon's light.

His heart, a captive stone, now felt a sculptor's might, to carve a love eternal beneath the olive's moonlit night.