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.