Dec 4, 2011 by



The mist, a hanging web
on which a thousand breaths
will pull and tear and form.
In the field of dew
you’re there,
hushed, yet still
bewitched, the thrill of light

Tomorrow, I will come and
be with you.
Drink and eat whilst
the gentle roll and move
will lull, will keep me
with drowsy sleep
and sweet,
scented air.

Through windows washed
I dream.
My eyes and mind escape to where
you stream and live.

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