He Writhe

Not by her eyes did I stop in my tracks Though they spoke as Celtic forest rings And glittered as a wyvern's hold. Not by her voice soft, Sweet as a siren entrapping my soul Resonate as Christmas bells carried by A valley crystalline in new snow. Neither her touch, which infuses my weary flesh Tonic of revival and haven of hearth. Delicious like peppermint cider Warming me from within. Not by any, but by all these Her being more than jetties to break the waves More than trees that soften the squall More than a harbor for my soul Yea, he writhe in pleasure, peace, and home Hiraeth.