The Birth Day Of The Sun: Part II
Soundless stands each stretch of houses.
Bayit-Lekhem in wintrous calm as coarsest night kills evening.
The candle on the island lights the moving, glass-bound muse.
P’rhaps we won’t stop anymore, now there’s no space – seat or floor.
I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
Just what love is; just what it means.