There’s a sickness
or a ringing
in the early hours of night
and it creeps and creeps and creeps
till you’re begging for the light.

There’s a pinging, pinging, triumph
of wisdom in your eyes.
You have grown and now you know
not to take me by surprise.

It’s a slow infatuation
seems to ebb and flow with tides
or with the special flitter-flutter
of un-all-knowing minds.