out on the ledge
the wind stampedes,
bending the trees to the east,
forming newborn dunes on the beach,
as the moon pulls the roaring tide
thundering in on the rocks
and the dark clouds roll above
I don’t want to be inside
I want to ride
I want to spin
I want to throw my arms out wide
and scream
witches may fly here tonight
but if i must go in,
let it be to the ancient house
where the hawthorns bend and bow
let it be through the trembling door
where i left the key before,
where the hearth is built of granite
and the chimneys whistle and moan
and the fire almost gutters out
may the mountains loom as dark sentries,
to shelter the crumbling walls
as the land sinks down in terror,
beneath the quaking floors
may it stand,
as it has for three hundred years,
battling the wind
nothing will die here tonight
The Dreaming Path 