There is no great love here.

There is no wide dash of passion,

no ripping open the heart,

no mad pulse pounding,

nor the bleeding of eternity through our pores,

nor the fire and brimstone that have painted the pages of

a thousand ages and more.

There is no imagination swathed in sweat,

no beating of twin hearts entwined.

There is the crocus,


rising from the morning snow,

slow petals hidden,

silent growth from winters wild depths.

There is the robin,

splash of red amongst the corpses

of autumns victims,

singing out his devotion

to a hidden nest of home.

There is you and I,

bundled in the early dawn,

breathes rising and falling silent as snow,