As the evenings are lengthening, I could be tempted by a snog at twilight, when the lights are low and the flickering shadows softly come and go. Though your heart be weary, sad the day and long, still to us at twilight comes love's old snog, love's old sweet snog.

Simon, the dyslexic poet, lures.

I may well be there - you have been warmed.

Alan