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oh…not a word…not yet, not yet…
there’s just this shy forgotten stream

for which I try to find a bed

a jaden reed-marsh and a ferry…

– Charon’s soalboat it might be

right from an ancient yellowed picture –

to besail the solemn silence

and the shive’ring silver sheen…

oh…not a word…not yet, not yet…

and I have been here for so long…

there’s just this ever tender windsong

this aubade of summerdawn, for which

I’d love to find a willow and some wattle

to rejoice in – from your bushland

it might be – a crown of blossom

and the mellow breath of May…

oh…not a word…not yet, not yet…

and I have flown so far astray…

there’s just this whisp’ring veil

of night-rain o’er the dozing riverclay

from which I try to model butterflies

and dainty little flowers, while the hours

of all ages pass me by…lucid cloudlets

in an airless opal sky…
                              

oh…not a word…not yet, not yet…

there’s just this shy forgotten stream

by which an old man ’s kneeling down

to view his life, to drink and dream…

he knows my name, he knows my face

he knows my spirit and my grace…

– a fairy figure I might be –

one that’ll always, always light his days…