the finest woman you'll never see
is singing close and distantly
in a cavern whispering
by a fountain in the forest eaves;
will you always stand alone
by the waters and the moon?
will you be returning soon?
will you lead your poet home?
love can make a man go mad,
in poets such madness is terminal.
she stares full face into my eyes, says:
"this is your birth or your funeral."
Her smile, be sure, is a holy sight,
a reward beyond imagining;
we rise to love then fall to die,
and I? I write verses for her
others sing.
(C) 2011-2020 by W.G. Milne
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