In the night when I awoke,
And those close bodies in this house slept,
I heard a whispered sound,
Perhaps like rain,
When in its gentle fall,
Undriven by wind
It touches the window.

I stood within the silent house
Listening to that
Murmur in the night,
Then soft against my face
The touch of wings.
A moth fluttering,
Alive with me in
This quiet dark.

All else sleeps
Except my memories
Of other fleeting
Times when,
Gently touching
Fingers to your lips
Reaching through blackness
To find you.

Tony Crisp

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp

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