Where Santon’s stream winds through its gorge
And little waterfalls
Make music in the humid air
A subtle presence everywhere
Haunts the gold-brackened walls.
Down corridors of time the ethos moves
Ageless, unmarked by change;
Though customs alter, creeds grow old,
And homesteads crumble, hearths grow cold,
The vital spark will warm and range.
Where children laugh and ducklings float
Eternal mornings shine.
Age captures them, and others come
A while on strings of life to strum
And drink the morrow’s wine.
The bees that shake the fuchsia bells
Are not the ones that came
Last year, but though that brood is gone
The task of nectaring goes on,
Feeding the deathless flame.