The wind is soft from the south, Barely stirring the tepid pool Of sunshine and fritillary tracings In which we sit, but still Strong enough to have carried The tendrils now woven into promise That winter will not come again.
Barely stirring the tepid pool
Of sunshine and fritillary tracings
In which we sit, but still
Strong enough to have carried
The tendrils now woven into promise
That winter will not come again.
to David / to Moongate