With me, waiting, the
Leaves clatter about. A chill in
The air, winter soon.
The perfume I wear
Because I know you like it
Smells like rushing snow.
You gaze at me, eyes
Grey like the clouded sky, and
That touch of Autumn.
Kisses that steal our
Breath, skin that shimmers, moves, like
Sunlight through bare trees.
Your scent, as it clings
To my skin. Rain, and leaves
Listen at the window.
Flashes, as I sit at
The screen. Like thunder, I sigh
At the memory.
As if I could love Mr Stephen Fry any more, I have discovered that he too, is a technophile.
I am Hannah Nicklin, a brightly coloured playwright, tech-enthusiast, blogger and academic. Particular interests include theatre, social media, open-source art, the politics of identity and the democratising power of the wiki-ethic. I do other things too. Check out the pages across the top of the site to find out more
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