David Lewis Paget (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

Nights in white cottages
By the last of the flickered firelight,
Supping sweet pottages
To the wind-wail without,
With the water on the wet wall
And your shadow on the lattices
As you cold-come to comfort
In the red candlelight.

At the grey day's frail dawning
We walk the storm ravages,
We talk at the tattered sea shore
Where the tide night-high rips,
I kissed you on a grey sky
Where the shells turn to sea-sand,
For time knows no passages
At a warm woman's lips.

5 July 1981