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