I dare not to glance ~ for fear that it is a dream.
As the strong, delicate flower, on my fell,
how can it be?
How is she, here with me?
Her beauty, her richness, veiled colours not seen.
Hidden by time, from life’s harsh tapestry,
yet now ~ not from me.
Cupped by my hand, from harsh winds, from the breeze,
her scent is my essence ~ the nectar of my dreams.
Now touched by an angel, I must hold her gently ~ to me.
Copyright © 2013 by Mike Sutcliffe