I took the quiet road, out over the hayrack, past the derelict cottages along Suburbia way. The library was empty, the books all turned to dust. Only the little ones understood, understood enough, still to play.
The bells are silent
Still; still hanging but silent
Their ropes are worn thin with worry
Those last few years were ever busy
Old stones grow older with the rain
Thank heavens for the seasons
The waters edge is endless
Without salt or sand to hold back the forces of wind and sun
Without salt or sand to hold up the heavier weights of life
With nowhere to fly to, nor new life to deliver, our job here is done. Still the cases might as well be unloaded; the quiet road is subsided, even the cart tracks have fallen. We ought though to stay around. No one must ever know.
