The birds have written their notes on bare branches and left them to dry. Dawn folds back the covers of slumber.
Parched, the man rolls onto his side and reaches for the jug and glass beside the candle.
If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap.
Oblivious of the lies which have burst open, of the woman who shrank at his touch, he stares blindly into the milky pool. Oblivious of the dizzy swirl which weaves spells of magic.
You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap.
He raises the ruddy glass to unquenched lips. Silently, time inhales the bitter years of betrayal.
That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.
The unsung songs guard their secrets. His last gasp seals the winds of change. The sigh of leaving, dilly dilly, when love’s rhymes collide.
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