Brown Green Dry And Waiting

Lake Entiat,Eastern Washington USA.

 Lyrics by Bruce Cockburn

  
I love the pounding of hooves
I love engines that roar
I love the wild music of waves on the shore
And the spiral perfection of a hawk when it soars
Love my sweet woman down to the core

There's roads and there's roads
And they call, can't you hear it?
Roads of the earth
And roads of the spirit
The best roads of all
Are the ones that aren't certain
One of those is where you'll find me
Till they drop the big curtain

Hear the wind moan
In the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
Brown-green and dry
I'm too old for the term
But I'll use it anyway
I'll be a child of the wind
Till the end of my days

Little round planet
In a big universe
Sometimes it looks blessed
Sometimes it looks cursed
Depends on what you look at obviously
But even more it depends on the way that you see
Hear the wind moan
In the bright diamond sky
These mountains are waiting
Brown-green and dry
I'm too old for the term
But I'll use it anyway
I'll be a child of the wind
Till the end of my days

 

Days

   Thank you for the days
   Those endless days those sacred days you gave me
   I'm thinking of the days
   I won't forget a single day believe me
 
   I bless the light
   I bless the light that shines on you believe me
   And though you're gone
   You're with me every single day believe me
 
             Elvis Costello 

The Road

Road

BY LISA WILLIAMS

This is what poetry is (says the Road),
a laying down of uniform pattern
across a land you can't control
but which you think it best to flatten.
It's far from vivid. Look at the whole
flamboyant forest! Look at the paths
that can't be uttered by a mouth
and at the scattered arcs of light
more integral to this wide planet
than words will ever be. Your lines?
Like railroad tracks that cut the bracken,
bring something through, then disappear.
No one knows what speck was taken
or where it moved, and no one cares.