A Song of Love by Steve Wood

It has been said.

That we love those who sing a song only we can hear

I hear Inuit throat singing in three part harmony

I find it fascinating, though I'm not entirely clear

What sweet nothings hide within her singular cacophony

She pulls strange faces

When serenading me with vulpine growls

Not exactly looks of love or admiration

Sending love through strangled vowels

But I hear a gentle song of rapturous celebration

I see a gurn and hear a gargle

'Tis true she rarely speaks of love

One could call her manner hard

She'll never be a treasure trove

of honeyed words , no lovers' bard

Is she

But I adore the song she sings

By singing it to me, and me alone

She turns my weary limbs to angel wings

No better wish for the man who will be stone.