Poetry

To me she came on one storm tossed night
with eyes shining bright like the morning dew,
she was dressed quite flimsily in white
stepped into my arms before I knew.
She kissed me and in bliss we did play,
we were smitten; it was much more than lust,
every day I must from her keep away;
my friend, companion, lord in me do trust
but when Guinevere smiles there is just us.