Over the hill to the west past the bourns
Through the stones as they stand
Past a forest of bones
Lies a stream at the base of the root of the crowns
As it circles the greens of the silence it downs
Softly calling the grasses and sighing the wheat
Over boulders bearded and burning with midsummer heat
The shadows lie black on the truth of the morning.
Echoing with the truth of sweet morning.
Mourning morning in the sunrise as the sea of day rises with the tide.