—Morley–
Beyond the meadow of the moor
lived an old chap who claimed his rule
over all he spoke.
Fear nothing, for you are my own.
I have loved you.
I hope you shall n’t be lost.
The gentle men’s soul spoke
in the wind, centuries fell like rain.
They spoke with unequivocal song
like that of a fairy tale, not a nightmare,
just a mystery.
They cried for a place on the earth
they traveled. Ever so dearly they cried
Not of pity, but of love, and strength.
Their veins smelt of cocoa and cinnamon,
their skin tasted of vigilance and heat.
The old man may be seen,
trotting along as he did before,
for it was he who began the remembrance.
No longer an ancestor. A giver.
They was she. The meadow. The moor.
The nature that bled from deep in her heart
like a leaf from an oak: slowly but surely
A star shone. Not one. But an eyes-view
of stories, or places yet unknown. For the
old chap didn’t know all the the places
she would go.
