With a quill in hand,
I could tell thee how much they are loved,
and it would be believed, it would be honoured
for the feather would catch the late April
sunshine struggling through
the grime ridden window and would pause
your concerns for the day;
the ink staining the desk would congeal
and hard work would be seen to have been employed
in the making of verbal declarations of love
to your fair and beautiful eyes.
With a typewriter, an old fashioned
set of clunky keys resounding