The cloud-bleached Sky is spread aloft,
The lichen leeches sap to grow,
The ice-pierced stones lie silently
And I love you so.
The icy fang of winter’s wind
Attenuates us to the cold.
December brooks no flattery.
So I’ve been told.
But should our ways be always polar?
Are not smiles of love the food? Moan
Or giggle, join our spheres. You know
I am alone.
So send to me some secret sign
Some wish to hasten on the Spring,
The day the sedge spreads by the lake
And when the birds sing.
Rupert Swallow 