“Sing to me! ”
you sigh
resting your head
on my lap.
I stroke your hair
as outside
on the Yorkshire Moors
a storm
towers majestically
above our
frail fragile love.
I sing
unevenly inexpertly
all the Rodgers & Hart
songs I can sing
out of tune & brokenly
keep the storm at bay
with nothing but the love
in my voice
your sleeping hair
spilt like dreams
across my lap.
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