Coyly

In the garden's dappled glade,
She stirs her favourite cup of tea—
Averted eyes, yet unafraid
To let her amusement faintly show.

A lift of lashes, swift and light,
Like moth-wing against summer haze—
The colour trembles in her sight
Before it opens to the gaze.

I trace the story in her face:
The dimple that dares not stay,
The breath held in a quiet lace—
All words she will not yet convey.

Oh, this coy play—so subtly sown,
Where neither flees nor stands exposed,
Two halves of one unspoken tone,
In quiet courage undisguised.