The wind blows with gusto
It blusters across the warm garden
If this had been an holiday romance
The loss, or sense of it, would already be upon us
The warm winds of the wet Atlantic
The thrashing storms of Regis seas
Sixpence in the bubble-gum machine
A parachute slow hanging from the citrus tree
In joy we seek out shadows
In sorrow a search for somewhere light
That is why, for us, we ride the roller coaster
That is why we step upon the magic bus
In my deckchair
Beside meadow grass and mistletoe
To read a book of passionate poetry
Rapture; yes, I do remember
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