I'll make love to you

in all good places

under black mountains

in open spaces.

By deep brown rivers

that slither darkly

through far marches

where the blue hare races.



Come with me to the Winged Isle ---

northern father's western child.

Where the dance of ages is playing still

through far marches of acres wild.



I'll make love to you

in narrow side streets

with shuttered windows,

crumbling chimneys.



Come with me to the weary town ---

discos silent under tiles

that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly

on concrete marches of acres wild.



By red bricks pointed

with cement fingers

Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.



Come with me to the Winged Isle ---

northern father's western child.

Where the dance of ages is playing still

through far marches of acres wild.