I'll make love to you
in all good places
under black mountains
in open
spaces.
By deep brown rivers
that slither darkly
through far marches
where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle
Northern father's Western
child
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of Acres
Wild
I'll make love to you
in narrowside streets
with shuttered
windows,
crumbling chimneys
By red bricks pointed
with cement
fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the weary
town
Discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
on
concrete marches of Acres Wild
