I've given the better part of my days
to the consideration of small things,
gingerly went unpicking the seams
of a long dried-up stream (ya-ho, ya-ho, ya-ho)
dwelling at length inside the mad waltz
of spores on a gust of the mind's hair,
and when I dream I really go
to an ocean of stone.
In the shadowed shallows our spirit wells.
Move closer, move closer.
On the radio I hear the blue hills.
