
I am always on the verge of rapture rising into Aprils blue skies at the sound of birdsong or scent of budding roses or his footsteps on the gravel path of the garden he creates for me each and every morning
I am always on the verge of rapture rising into Aprils blue skies at the sound of birdsong or scent of budding roses or his footsteps on the gravel path of the garden he creates for me each and every morning