By David Price, Woolhope
We would lie in the long grass,
And I would stroke your hair.
A nocturne would be playing,
As a fading butterfly dances her last,
In the cooling twilight air.
There is an end to love at its most glorious,
And for us I would have it be like this:
Sunset of desire, departing glorious,
As threadbare wings dissolve into
atoms and feel the pull of deep rich earth,
Gravity returns us to more serious things.
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