With love so dear and sheerest light,
Arrived to clear moors of heart,
As it bled for near myth in fey touch,                                                          
­Grained by times and dust apart,

The moon was cast as sun was shy
And rain did fall winsome, tasking,
Suddenly a meadow appeared new,
Flying colours under sun basking

And as a child once more, I became,
To feel such graces slowly divine,
No longer lost in gardens of dream,
But be rapt in broken light so kind.