~~~{Where the Willows Bend}~~~

Since olden times the wind blew strong upon the rugged plains,
And many are the people who dwelt there, and built their dreams.
With mighty hands they raised stone circles in mystical domains,
They cried and wept, they laughed and loved, near quiet streams.
The ash, the oak, and the willow tree, on each the river's sides,
Did grow to touch the heavens, where ancient folk did once abide.
I walked there long, and wandered far in search of forgotten lore,
But I left with silent understanding, and a yearning to learn more.
In the woods, the yew grows tall and the pine trees point above,
To where the birds soar brightly with grace, across the azure sky.
So moved was I, that still I hold that land in my heart with love...
For there is a magic still in its' hills, that a modern mind may deny.

Did you walk there in your day, and delight in the tall green grass,
The sound of which was like a sea, when the wind blew through...
The swaying green where once danced many a pretty country lass,
With flowers in their golden hair, hopes for dreams to come true?
Where now are they, and their sires who bore the arms of kings...
Where now are the minstrels who sang of their beauty and more?
They are gone, their age is past, along with so many other things,
Forgotten are their cities, now just stones due to some old war...
The cause of which we cannot guess, for it is past beyond memory.
Your minstrel heart did sing to mine, and I remember that beauty!
For none could forget eyes moved to tears by such a muse as you,
Who could spin a tapestry so fair, that it made dreams come true.

One more time, let us go back to those ancient streams of silver...
Where flowed the waters gently from the hills so far, so far away!
Cool were those waters, that in winter made mighty men shiver...
Now they are gone, their age is past, in the glow of another day.
Where now do you sing, gentle minstrel lass who moved me so?
Mayhaps in the fields beyond, where all the softer breezes blow!
Perhaps I'll spy you amidst the grass, your lute in hand as before,
When so many stopped to hear you play, and sing of magical lore.
Every night the crickets chirp, and we see the fireflies dance free,
Amidst the stones that rose across the lands of that old country...
But we hear not your lute, save when it plays in our hearts again,
And the music makes us dance, near where the willows yet bend.

Dedicated the memory of Kathleen 'Gwenno' Jones-Watson.
Your music inspired a generation and helped us know other worlds.