To my tousled haired boy, I saw that skein on your jumper,
and with a fold of my hand I pulled that thread back.
I would wait out a cold winter with just the thought of your eyes,
In the spring I would feed you juniper berries and kiss
your neck, for you smell like the land.
I would wait for all time for no time has measure,
to bring to you pleasure and time can stand still, for as
long as I sing. I would dig my own grave if you gave me that order.
Elusive as heather on fields and on marshes. To the own end
I would march forth, if just once you would hold my old hand.