At the weekend she’ll go back again to walk barefoot on ferns
And then through shadowed green mosaics where sunlight never burns
She’ll wander wisp tossed quiet lanes of timeless peace rimmed hours
Where emerald rain drops sprinkle from sky cameo blue showers,
And her memories touch her colourless, invisible her dreams
A potpourri of what could be, at least that’s how it seems,
Bare branches from a shaded stream, her mystic sundial time
Will write again on patchwork waters with the elegance of rhyme.


And then she’ll rest against an oak tree in a timeless scented glade
To dream of dreams that dream of her before her visions fade,
Within her silver quietness she’ll feel the whispered songs
That speak to her in once again, of where her soul belongs,
And in her dreaming wakefulness, her echoes all return
Those images of wonderment that made her passion burn,
Until at last her eyes said prayers that wandered from her face
To drape the hours of shade and showers in snow white Whitby lace.


When every echo comes back home, as she strolls by the stream
She’ll whisper walk through spirit lands dressed only in a dream
Trimmed in black satin moments and in silken serenades
She’ll drift in her serenity until the vision fades,
In the new morn she will tip toe back to where her dream belongs
That wondrous land that holds her hand and sings to her its songs,
For all she was and all she is became a part of me
And arm in arm we’ll wander over our celestial sea…