pavane

over the fields
of burnished grain,
marching to the beat
of his antique heart,
the fiddler strides
with flashing vielle,
and strikes a song,
a dancing air
of jocund grace
brilliant as birdsong,
gold and leaden
as the stormful skies.

see him come
with battered hat
and year-long coat,
see him come
stirring fast and slow
the ancient music out,

and strong, strong, the rising song,
the song of the willows in the mead,
and strong, strong, the rising song,
the dance of the flowers in the seed.

rising up the bruised gold spin
of the music from the soul within,
stirring up now fast and slow
the song of the lost heart’s letting go,
time’s river’s endless flow,
the calling of the road within.

over the fields
the fiddler strides
with flashing vielle,
and strikes a song,
a dancing air
of jocund grace,
brilliant as birdsong,
gold and leaden
as the stormful skies.

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