Harp strings over the woodland mist Such shiverings of endless prayer That never seem to say goodbye They only seek to keep you there, And steeped in woods of long gone days Of Summer green and Autumn sky Are dryads of the ancient ways That dance as whispering treetops sigh.
A poet who repairs church floors Knows many ways to write his rhymes So many paths, so many lanes That lead to oh so many times, Yet many know his cottage light And each one knows him by his name Each is a friend who needs his help And see in him a kindly flame.
And up ahead, the village green Where giant oak trees spread their arms And on their bench under its shade They chatter as the evening calms, As the poet passes they say hello And wish him well upon his walk Down by the riverside once more Where birdsong glows and soft winds talk.
Old Meg looked up and smiled at him She gathered herbs here every day To cure the village people’s ills And take their miseries away, Soon he turns and wanders home A poet walking all alone Though as he walked, his dream came too And they’d both chat upon the phone…
Look into their eyes. Eager, wanting to know. Wanting to know what they got themselves into. Fresh faces, years before the first wrinkle. Blank slates hanging on our every word. Each time, a clean slate pregnant with potential. Each time,
Dawn left bare bones Gave her his cruel temper, he, whom no one had ever loved Virgin’s blood shed not for pleasure but for body senses lust Flare of fire, modern world burnt Fugitives from Orion hide on Milky Way