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