She suffers with her dreams.
In the shipwreck, there's a limpet
on the rudder. Holding fast, that's all.
Becoming fluent is painfully slow.
And as normal as split ends.
She suffers with her dreams.

Upright as a queen,
she's all that makes me king.
But lain beyond the grey boundary 
she's prey to envoys from the years,
muttering ballads fraught with discord.
I hold fast. She suffers with her dreams. That's all.

Normal as moon-rise she'll stretch 
her hours extraordinarily long.
For when something goes bump in the night,
in a crash-landed hot air balloon she'll weep.
And a simple cyclist such as I catch up
to a derailed train round the bend.