And, yes, my lips are lonely for your mouth:
Two bows without a Stradivarius.
And, yes, I hunger still for your strong shoulder,
Disciple of our final and Last Supper.
And yes, and yes, my wasting fingers languish,
Awaiting, like Penelope, your hand
There is a vast storm brewing in my midst,
a hurricane that threatens sanity.
I cannot walk upright; the wild winds batter.
Fierce rains will always flood a happy place.
Can I survive the tumult of you gone,
when worlds are far too much and not enough?
And rescue workers are too far away?
Copyright©1964 Ev Clarke (McTaggart)
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