by Timothy Reaves

Created on: January 27, 2010

White petals from the apple tree

Fall like snow upon the ground.

Yon tree can shroud both you and me

And hide us from the tempest round...

About to fall asleep to day

And dream until the sky hath cleared.

The tempest then a world away

Will stay us both, for t'will appear

Titanic in its billowed hate,

Blowing o'er yon cursed land.

Yet starry skies will be our fate - 

Will have a tempest in the hand.

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