Irish Green
No one it seems knows where the wild rose hides or listens to a breeze when it tugs at your sleeve.
No one it seems knows what an owl will ask, sitting high on the limb of a tree
No one it seems walks across a moon-lit field where there are no shadows to fear
Go when the moon is high in the midnight hour and you will find the wild rose along the way and it will offer you a bloom
Stop for a moment to listen to a breeze when it tugs at your sleeve and stirs memories, shaded by lovely green
The owl will nod and then ask, “Who”?
“My dark haired woman with Irish green eyes.”
No one it seems knows where the wild rose hides or listens to a breeze when it tugs at your sleeve.
No one it seems knows what an owl will ask, sitting high on the limb of a tree
No one it seems walks across a moon-lit field where there are no shadows to fear
Go when the moon is high in the midnight hour and you will find the wild rose along the way and it will offer you a bloom
Stop for a moment to listen to a breeze when it tugs at your sleeve and stirs memories, shaded by lovely green
The owl will nod and then ask, “Who”?
“My dark haired woman with Irish green eyes.”
1 comment:
I like very much!
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