Last Chance

an English Sonnet

We shall have to make do with what is left
While lights are out for voluntary sins,
To harvest honey and deter the theft
Of youthful minutes though the season spins.

I'll write with quills from eagles' wings until
The fire is down to hissing coals, and I'll
Relate our tales, revolve our plot, to fill
The carnivorous hours with daring guile.

I'll linger, so to pen many a line;
To dream, I'll need your hair to sweep my face
Here, where our shadows on the walls may sign
A weary night's consent to sleep of grace.

Come, touch me, love; we're stowaways in time;
Come, touch me, love, before the last bells chime.