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Grey fathers mine of stature tall
gathered shoulder to shoulder to cradle me
they truly breathe the sweet breath of life
and love and freedom
pouring the peace of solitude upon my soul.
In Spring they look down and smile
a green welcome, fragrant with life's nectar
whispering of revelling nymphs and fairies
and all goodly folk of the sylvan realm
wreathed in beauty they worship life.
Summer smoulders, lying on the bees wing
shadows blanket the bower where I would sleep
the young of spring blithely wander
for lacking nothing youth blossoms
a miracle of everyday amazement.
Then comes the mellow time of Pan
the pipes of Autumn lure the heart
leading beneath a heaven of bronze and gold
which is falling, falling, winnowing down
and the grey fathers are still of mine.
Cold the moon of frost and snow
shining mazed on diamond floor
grey father's fingers grope for the stars
and the North wind tells of emptiness
drifting the last gold of autumn toward oblivion.
In Spring the trees raise up my soul
in Summer they sing me a lullaby
I follow Pan down Autumn ways
the Winter cold warms my humbled heart
and always I soar on a luff of love
high, high .... high, to fly with butterflies.
