In the hall I hear a girl. And the tremble
of a lute;
its melody fluttering from under her door
I taste her sorrow and share its truth.

By dusk we’re quiet as cloaks descend,
a veil so fluffy, there is nothing
only bleak air and the motorways
of our thoughts; which trace the lanes
racing slow across white moors.

My clock is sad, she’s moving so slow
I cannot relax until with joy
I toast
to the vast unknown. A hand
will reach out so lovely, so clean;
and comfort me softly, as harmony leaves.