wet sunday morning
in this half-light the kingdom of the rain
what we name silver is a brighter grey
no one is certain on this sort of day
but would not venture to speak nor complain
once past the dark the bronze and gold hold sway
there are no shadows that is what we say
in the damp woods the leaf-mould leaves its stain
what we name silver is a brighter grey
with its cold hand the passing storm will slay
dry heat of summer and tie winter's chain
once past the dark the bronze and gold h old sway
beneath loose dirt is nothing but hard clay
red as the rust that wants to claim its reign
what we name silver is a brighter grey
it is no use to shout or disobey
the dull commands of human body's pain
once past the dark the bronze and gold hold sway
what we name silver is a brighter grey