By two in the morning he's finally yawning,
slips under the quilt with his lover.
All those nights he has tossed and turned in a frost,
accounting the cost of the things he has lost
from those coveted days under cover.
Pond, woodcut by Frederick Nunley
fishpond
Pip Wilson
This is the blog where I post poetry as I find it in the fishpond outside the door of my garden flat.
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