On the wild coast
where crooked trees grow
I will build a shelter
from mud and stones
I will sleep in a burrow
on a bed of straw
let seasons pass
let people go

Then when they think I am no more
the dreams are gone
the sun is low
I will emerge and let them know
that I have measured time
that I have counted the stars
and wherever you are
I will go too.



© Cecilia Danell 2012