The golden sun's rays
Bleed through the gaps
In the trees.
The warmth contrasts
Perfectly with the
Cold, gentle breeze.
The sunburnt leaves lie
As a blanket, crisp
And cracked;
Covering our footpath,
We're never to be
Tracked.
He holds my hand,
We look up at the trees
And they wave to one another.
Our fingers intertwine -
We share a warmth just
Like no other.
He hums to me softly,
His voice so familiar,
Sweet and low;
As he takes me somewhere
Only we know.
He has the hands of a
Musician, weaving a
Work of art;
He's plucking the strings
Of my harp-shaped heart.
