Monday, September 28, 2009

Quiet

Oh, the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin
as you climb up hillside, forest and fen.

Your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine,
your memories wrapped within paper and twine.

The room that you lie in is dusty and hard,
sleeping soft babies on piles of yards
of gingham, taffeta, cotton and silk,
your dry hungry mouths cry for your mother's milk.

When the dawn comes to greet you, you'll rise with clothes on,
and advance with the others, singing old songs
of cattle and maidens and withered old queens.
Let the music carry you on!

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M is for Margaret, who was swept out to sea...