before
the
dim
dark
dismal
days
draw
out
we walk
the hills
about
your home
below
the river
snakes
from
bog-filled
fen
where men
still slave
for fuel
and
as
the curlew
rises
high
you
ask
me
if
I'd like
to die
within the
swollen
waters
and
as
upon
a
heather bed
we carnal
make
the western
wind
just
whimper
a cry
rings
out
and
shattered
dreams
fall
down
upon
the silvered
plain
bleak
blackness
blissfully
descends
