In the low houses
That surrounded the tall stone church
Children chased the scudding clouds
Of their dreams
Whilst their wild eyed mothers
Trapped the tender scents
Of the mad lilac trees
And bottled them in their summer jars
On the roads of Lelant
Tired men gazed at the verdant hills
These slopes are made of gold
They said
These slopes are made of gold
And in the skies
Migrating birds shared stories of travel
Much false
As they glided on the thermals
Above the white horse