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.