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 the narrow side streets
with shuttered windows,
crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town
Discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scattersoftly
on concrete marches of Acres Wild.
By red bricks pointed
with cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shouders.
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.
