‘Wind In The Heather’
Soft blow the winds in the heather,
That clings and release,
Sweet raptures of purple perfection,
Tiny tendrils in the cusp of our happiness
Blazing in the sunset of our moments,
Our meandering through autumn days
That time to treasure
The untamed wilderness
The quick escaping joy
Of simple togetherness,
Until lives were lost
In tangles of toil
Sweet still they blow
Awaiting the footsteps
Of springing youth
And loving longings
By
Mary Cecil