Neath The Tree (Where The Hoot Owl Waits)
packing my bags,
my flute and guitar...
the laces of my boots tied.
an old shotgun,
a couple of books,
my hat pulled down low.
leaving a candle,
a couple of prayers,
and the memory of song....
nothing left to say,
nothing left to give,
nothing left undone.....
by the moonlight
in the cold, down
this long winding road....
going back to where
it all began....
in the deep dark of night
by the river bank....
listening to the water
till i lose all memory of myself....
and the wind comes calling,
an old friend, a lover...
'neath the tree where the hoot owl waits!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
