a stiff wind blows across the vale;
it chills me to the bone —
and warms my heart to know he’s here
and i am not alone.

he turns his face, with trembling lip,
to look me in the eyes;
the last ones left to contemplate
our broken paradise.

there used to be much more than we
who walked here hand in hand,
when worship was confined to rooms,
when love was contraband,

we danced around the fire pits
when dancing was a sin;
and left to our tomorrow'd selves
the trouble we’d be in.

we knew the forest as a friend
with all its secret shades;
the mushroom bards who played the waltz
for elves and river-maids —

but even harmless fantasy
must bow to cruel facts;
the signature of discipline
cut deep into our backs

and though my soul’s in ******* by
the promise of a ring,
and fire’s lamed the little tongue
the forest taught to sing,

the music of the memory
still haunts me in my ear —
and beckons every equinox
my heart to wander here

and here behold the home we thought
no hierophant could find:
a bed of ash, an empty vale,
his spectral form, and mine.