It should be showers
But it is bare bone dry
It should be spring
But it is passing by
It should be so much more
The birth of hawthorn bloom
Walking out across the fields
Dragging the chains of memory
Pull them down from yesterday
Leave behind dreams of wintery
Days, high on a far thrown hill
Where the bitter sun shines cold
Where all those memories hide
Ancient stories waiting to unfold
Along the shores of the sea
Where the beaten dolphins die
A journey to the molten lava clouds
In which no birds can fly
Where the weeping angels tell
Tales of love long bitten to rust
Of the lonely days, forgot by life that
Are moulded memories of moulded dust
Breaking across marshmallow cries
No dreaming spires would ever weep
Or rail against such subtle skies
Until May may come
To evaporate the frosts
And May may come
To lead us from the lost
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