(no subject)
Nightsong Beside you, lying down at dark, my waking fits your sleep. Your turning flares the slow-banked fire between our mingled feet, and there, curved close and warm against the nape of love, held there, who holds your dreaming shape, I match my breathing to your breath; and sightless, keep my hand on your heart's breast, keep nightwatch on your sleep to prove there is no dark, nor death. Philip Booth