Would that we read inside of a world
So privacy was best
Gentle benign
Curling beside her cleats
Irish bell
In countries held
Toss of yarn
Fireplace and barn
Having landed with ***
Crusted and trough
Ready the bedside
To carry very little off
Rarely amused by others wise eyes
Only connected inside
Loosened by nearest timber

Having lent ears, catlike
In by choice if sights
Mearing the omens
Fetching as brunnles hawf

Would that our journals were our own
Sands of time would hardly know
As lilting branch
And meadows grazed
Country side to lies
Barely made

Would that our houses held back the rains
Having enough of storms familiar blame
To hardly half the days embrace
Coldly wrapping shoulders grace