He reads me Shelley as I sleep
in voice as deep and embracing
as a cave, or as a lake within -

three toned – first, a flow of laughter
echoing around the cavern
where I dream. Lowest of all, the vast

rich swell of life that fills his soul.
Between them runs a darkened stream
of sadness, a seam of tears so soft

- an unheard, delicate current -
yet so clear to my intent ear
- as sacred as the black-hole spaces

between the words he forms like carved
water to shape my dreams with song.

© Sophie Nusslé