I hear through her quill all that's wild and free
and afar from a time zone still
I can hear the breeze that gathers her to sleep
from the mountains of free will.

Her words as deep as an emerald's gleam
her thoughts from ancient balm.
I see the ghosts walk through her dreams
and wander on earth's palm.

Her blood still flowing cross polished stones
slowly turning them to gold.
She writes on the wind that sweeps and roams
through timeworn forests of home.

She bares Jasper tales lost from the eagle's eyes
where prayer-songs are lying unsaid.
She brings them to praise in bold open skies
with memoirs from the dead.

All the ground is haunted with sacred time
saddened and lonely and deep.
You can hear the wails of the distant cries
from out of her quill that weeps.

In her savoured soilitude
you can hear the will of God on her name
as it melts away at her rusted moods
like the sunshine follows the rain.

And I sit here in the womb of safety's keep
and afar from a time zone still
I can hear the breeze that gathers her to sleep
from the mountains of free will.


To a very special poet lady who knows exactly what I mean!!