The Voice

She came as wind, cross frozen lake,
To chill me, to my soul
Yet full and warm did take me high,
Where mortals never stroll

Such words had I not heard before,
With gentle, tender tone
To spirit light of any man,
Yet freeze him to the bone

A dream in time, of perfect phrase,
How burn the mind with fire
To hear at last angelic voice
Brim full with pure desire

Then all too soon, be gone away,
To places never seen.
Yet still remain the memory,

Or maybe, just a dream?

*

Roy Rawlinson January 2001.