The warmth doesn’t seem as warm as it was
And the cold’s like a wintering tide
But I remember long summer spells
When muscle-taut skin glowed with pride.
Though the winters were sharp as icicles’ spikes
That pierced every bone to the marrow,
I grew in it’s grip, and drained every drip
Thirsty and eager and callow – but
Now my old body can’t capture the warmth
Dance and play in the green’s dripping dew
But deep down inside, there’s still a spring tide
In the life that I still share with you.