‘Twas a misty morn by candlelight,
Where porridge was warm on fire bright,
The table was set for the morning sun,
From which labour and farm work would be done.

The door creaked open to the misty morn,
Dewdrops on briars and shrubs adorned,
Then came dawn’s first breath over the valley’s spine,
But not one could see the sun’s full shine.

O – to be there now,
Hand in hand with my fellow first-mates,
Bound for treasure; with shovels a’plough,
Through golden fields and salty lakes,
We would finger white crusty gems and dusty gold,
Before returning home, with tales to be told.

I live on an island.
She wonders where I’m standing;
She follows where I’m going,
She dwells where I’ve been.
She calls to my tomorrow;
She sings to my today,
She whispers to my yesterday.