Ballad…
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…
