A rustic in darkish clothes passed me
Down by the delicatessen of all my spicey dreams
With hands full of stars
And eyes so familiar
I thought I'd never see life again
The delicate darlings may wait in the wings
And wait they will - it's too late
For there is a beauteous beacon of winter
Like dahlias in autumn
and breath on the pane
He's come, relentless, shattering the world
wiith a sadness supreme
A thing we cannot help but die for
It is not called love
Bath, Avon, September 10th 1986
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