If I should wander far from the field,
Where winds blow soft upon the grass,
Who will guide me home?
Have I lost all I believed would come in dreams of love?
And have those streams of Spring’s feelings
Passed from possibility?
Where winds blow soft upon the grass,
Who will guide me home?
Have I lost all I believed would come in dreams of love?
And have those streams of Spring’s feelings
Passed from possibility?
Colours of song yet stir in the breast of life,
For I am come to the wall of silent sighing,
Like a child of the ancient tribe.
And you of the many voices, calling the chosen,
Have yet to give me a name remembered
In the valley of golden flowers.
Some still stand high on the mountain,
Amidst breezes of seasons of time,
Their voices floating o’er lonely roads.
‘Tis here that the graceful deer grazes,
Oblivious to the clouds of meaning
Hiding Winter’s sun from the forlorn.
Do you know me, a traveller of roads beyond,
A companion of solitude’s table and chair,
Breaking the bread of yearning?
Yet, still I believe that love’s healing hand
May someday touch my heart
And guide me home.
Phil Smalley
29th August 2007
For I am come to the wall of silent sighing,
Like a child of the ancient tribe.
And you of the many voices, calling the chosen,
Have yet to give me a name remembered
In the valley of golden flowers.
Some still stand high on the mountain,
Amidst breezes of seasons of time,
Their voices floating o’er lonely roads.
‘Tis here that the graceful deer grazes,
Oblivious to the clouds of meaning
Hiding Winter’s sun from the forlorn.
Do you know me, a traveller of roads beyond,
A companion of solitude’s table and chair,
Breaking the bread of yearning?
Yet, still I believe that love’s healing hand
May someday touch my heart
And guide me home.
Phil Smalley
29th August 2007
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