There’s a ghost of a thousand years or so, standing in the garden of my childhood home. Looks like she’s singing, in the tangerine twilight, between the rows of roses, softly swaying like a windchime.
Hey, she leaves no footprints as she dances in the moonlight.
Hey, sweet as a summer breeze that carries down the shoreline.
It was a terrible year in paradise, like someone left and didn’t latch the gate, something wicked crept while we slept, and everything changed.
Silver tongued poets, with hard callused hands, eyes like an autumn sunset, she runs barefoot in the sand. Nimble fingers, and blackened palms, the aurora borealis if it were a song.
Hey, she’s fleeting like a daydream in late afternoon light.
Hey, sweet as wildflower honey by the warmth of the fireside.
It was a terrible year in paradise, like someone left and didn’t latch the gate, something wicked crept while we slept, and everything changed.
I was told there’s a love that’s waiting if I’m patient, but there’s a real fine line between haste and hesitation.
There’s a ghost of a thousand years or so, standing in the garden of my childhood home. Looks like she’s singing, in the tangerine twilight, between the rows of roses, softly swaying like a windchime.
Just found this by chance in the "if you like David Stone... section" - It's a beautifully warm record, clean and smooth, but without being polished to a shine. Perfect walking-in-Autumn record. David Stone
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