Richard Dawson We Picked Apples In A Graveyard Freshly Mowed
We picked apples in the graveyard freshly mowed
The flight of flies peppered the sky
I could feel the sun between my legs
As we pressed our fruit, the labyrinth of the dead
Hold me, hold me
And never let me go
Hold me
The metal basin groaned
Under the weight of the fruit we'd earlier gathered
Spiders drowning in a silver spiral
The next door neighbour's cat
Is a ribbon of smoke around my ankles
I am listening for your key in the door
Hold me, hold me
And never let me go
Hold me
I awake to the screech of a fox in the street
Carrying your soul in its teeth
Through the snow
I invite the forest into my bed
My bed which is a river
Hold me, hold me
And never let me go
Hold me
Hold me, hold me
Never let me go
Hold me