He rests his head on soft, still bed,
Buttoned up in dreams, well-fleeced
The day is run and tales are spun,
In folds of fun, well-creased.
Outside the night – snow’s aura, bright,
Aglow in inky hues
Dark priest is he, bent at the knee,
His prayers, peace imbue.
I cup the cheek of one so meek
And touch upon a truth
His endless eyes, my nightly prize,
Warm soul, a blessed fruit.
This night, once dark, a world apart
From where I used to be
This knight, my light, who gives me sight
Was blind, but now I see.
Mr. Mole's Sense of Adventure