Tonite, the moon is ablaze. Under step, the snow crunches as I trudge down the still street towards home. I am so busy looking inside that I mistake a mini-herd of deer for ruffians out for a late night smoke. I stop. They stop. Now, frozen in place on this, our own abbey road. Our breath, heaves in and out in puffs of white – much like the tails that flick behind them. We face one another in the deep silence of a moonlit winter’s night.
And I sing.
I sing a lullaby – an ancient sound from a People who have survived. They cluster; this sound tempers their skittishness. The lone buck inches towards me and I towards him in a dance that wavers and weaves. The space between us both miniscule and monumental. I sing until I can no longer feel my hands for the cold. My nipples ripe with frost, I miss your mouth. I ache for your heat.
We walk. Or rather, they lead and I follow.
Down the street, I go
Under the weight of life
Benear this heat of living earth
The moon takes over and sings:
There is love.
There is love.
There is love.