Where the white land is green and young
but the songs still mourn

for generations gone
in the mists of waiting

on the mountains across
where life is hard and old

where the fireplaces always burn
marmots raise their noses

by the elderly sitting there
picnicking and painting

the creeping broom and the round table
beyond the camomile fields

on the mound behind the heather walls
and the fern hedges in the narrowdale

that still are waving there on the helmets
of drowned iron soldiers

I muse about life and I eat
chocolate at the camel river

Today no mists on the hill
where once stood the Lion Fort