Tones of Time
In a tavern by the harbour in a western port
a girl is pulling pints for the men who talk of sport.
Memories come flooding like the tidal ebb and flow
of the rolling ocean where the weathered sailors go.
And wistful time is passing.
Visions of a stranger still appearing in the door,
clearer than the river running gushing to the shore.
Tough, as rugged as a rock and yet so full of charm,
eyes brimful of mischief and tattoos upon his arm,
laughter fresh and bracing as the zephyrs of the sea,
a rover embodying the spirit of the free.
His song evokes a nightingale trilling from the nest,
sweet baritone with tremolo, hand upon his breast.
Then, when the tune is lilting, he leaps into the dance
quelling thug and bully with a challenge or a glance.
And happy time is passing.
On the misty mountain when lovers cling together,
breezes and promises are whispers in the heather.
And empty time is passing.