This is not Love, perhaps, 
Love that lays down its life, 
that many waters cannot quench, 
nor the floods drown, 
But something written in lighter ink, 
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk, 
And then the finding we can walk 
More firmly through dark narrow places, 
And meet more easily nightmare faces; 
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand, 
And then find Earth less like an alien land; 
A need for alliance to defeat 
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas, 
Halts for discoveries to be shared, 
Maps checked, notes compared; 
A need, at times, of each for each, 
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.


Submitted by Stephen Fryer