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As a voice beneath the millpond sings |
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From her past the lost June days are woken |
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And wind across the gorse slopes call |
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Through years, where the darkness roars |
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Until with wirl-pool panic heart she looks |
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Out of the looking-glass |
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And sees her standing by her side |
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Closes her soft grey eyes |
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Blurred hurried bliss |
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And the smell of space |
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Vanish through fires |
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Oh save me from the softness of your skin |
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I can see you in the millpond years |
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Quietly singing |
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And her voice across the millpond sings |
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Slow falling days and afternoons |
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Watching each other in the quiet looking-glass |
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While the geese ripple above the moors |
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The leaves turned an vanished with the storms |
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Falling through each others eyes |
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This tortured paradise |
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Her emerald dress |
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And the ivory sheets |
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Like delicate muscles |
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Sleep-walking through shapes that razor blind |
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But I can still see you in the millpond years |
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Quietly singing |
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I can see you there |
