I’ve seen a few,
lost in once the backcountry.
Places which came to life,
now buried beneath the earth.
Where all that’s left to stand,
the gatherings of some trees.
For their people long have left,
deserted the overgrown dirt.
Can no longer hear the footsteps,
the tears, the cries, and laughter.
These conversations faded long with time.
So as I walk here in these places,
the grasses bending to the South wind,
On this winter’s morn to hold warmth close.
As these wild lands, take my dreams,
while I pass across the fallen shelters,
tunes they fill my head about the brave.
In a time, a place, so far from home,
drinking from the cold waters,
not drinking here alone.
Other places in the backcountry,
places long since caught in dirt,
a different kind of world to be born.
The wild troubadour
Halfway from here,
As we paint worlds in our dreams,
Like painting gardens in time,
Where the colours they touch in the rain and the sun.
An old weathered track through the forest,
where a river flows strong and fresh,
the green grasses rest flat at the edge,
To tell their story of the old and new.
Listening to the soft sounds,
The passing troubadour, his light laugh,
As the animals gather from near and far,
To the dance of each wandering note,
Such a minstrel of travels in the wilds of his world,
The natural and kind folk, the open air and a tune,
No crowded spaces, no hot air balloons,
Just a dance and a melody beneath a new moon.
For the troubadour and his friend,
Journey barefoot with kind,
In the places where tunes pass,
From an old story, without bind..