My socks are wet again.
The stones are still standing
After thousands of years
And millions of hands
Pressing grease into their noble faces.
What do they stand for
But human ambition and
To mark fathers’ final places?
The sheep call out my name,
And the hills have been waiting
For me to notice their hard work,
Their self chosen mission
To stand every weather
Until we all must pass
Through rain-bedded fields
And the bunches of heather.

When I am gone,
They might remember
The song that I sang,
The tune on my tongue,
Or the town that I’m from,
But the smile that I gave them
And my soft-footed dance
Between two hours nearby
Will be lost to the wind.