Now my work is done. I feel I'm owed some joy. Oh Imogene and Abelard. I'm your homeward boy. But there's another one. Who brings me to your door. And the boat she weaved from the tidal reeds.
Just where it now lies I can no longer say. I found it on a cold and November day. In the roots of a sycamore tree where it had hid so long. In a box made out of myrtle lay the bone of song.
Once I knew a girl in the hard hard times. She made me a shirt out of fives and dimes. Now she's gone but when I wear it she crosses my mind. And if the best is for the best then the best is unkind.
She's a bad actress- but hey. You give her the big lines anyway. Though her eyes are big as Canada. And the hips are South Australia. And the shoulder blade is Africa.
Up here in the crows nest I am swimming through the breeze. One last memory from the sun as it is sinking by degrees. And high above the albatrosses, on the wing is light.
Fold yourself against. Me like a paper bird. Tonight we'll fly awhile. Just give me the word. And hold onto me. . Like I hold onto you. A steeple holds a bell.