UnclearThe picture is framed in lakeside mists,Unclear by Emily-Byrd
We're swathed in blankets
And chuckling about how
We look like Scottish immigrants,
And groaning and grinning,
Because we aren't morning people.
The sun creeps over a sapphire hill
And lights the water on fire
We sit and sigh
Our bare feet tucked up
On the cold wooden pier,
And I fit exactly beneath your arm.
The scene is utterly clear
Shining like the morning;
I look up into your face,
But I don't know what I expected
Because that part
Is not so clear.