Poor William

The Horizon burned in amethyst
Autumn winds brought rain and snow
Air had thickened into mist
Which licked the roots in the valley below
Where the shepherd's wife had gone to dig
A ditch beneath the standing stones

The diggings not the difficult part
It's the covering up with soil and clay
Travellers travelling easterly
Spot the burning hay upon a ridge
Poor William does own that flock
I wonder if he's seen the flames

He watched while we were sleeping
His eyes rolled back and his mouth agape
And he took without speaking
Then burned the syringe in a paper bag
And the smoke stained the ceiling
And the runes it cast read through a glass
Darkly, but then face to face

The days pass in sequent toil
As all forwards do contend
The pillars once the main of light
Fall to obscurity in the end
Now the ground is bleached by flowerbed
In Albion you'll rest your head

He watched while we were sleeping
His eyes rolled back and his mouth agape
And he took without speaking
Then burned the syringe in a paper bag
And the smoke stained the ceiling
The runes it cast read through a glass
Darkly, but then face to face



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