With lark and blood red sky you wake
and stirring reach and grasping nought
but still beside you etched in silk
that cold impression, there quite still.
Morning
Just a few libnes…I’m off to bed.
Just a few libnes…I’m off to bed.
With lark and blood red sky you wake
and stirring reach and grasping nought
but still beside you etched in silk
that cold impression, there quite still.
Afterwards 