You seem like a hard-working woman
as I pass your country door now
with a hand on your hip
slightly breathless
you give me a humourous bow
And I am a weary stranger
I return the gesture with a smile
then something locks between us
And my soul is yours
for a hundred years
and a mile
Now your door is a place of worship
where serenga and lavender grow
when you step forward from the darkness
your shadow moves so slow
With a hand on your hip
in the stillness
the summer air is alive
and you have the air of a goddess
and there is nothing
in this world
I cannot give

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