A song of longing and loss... the only real result of any war.
The Creek
by Lorne P Clarke copyright 2003
The creek is running high tonight
There's flooding near the bridge
The storm has flattened all the grass
In the fields along the ridge
When the moon peeks through the ragged clouds
I swear I hear you call
Just a twisted joke of wind and mind
The cruelest joke of all
The creek is shining silver white
As the wind unveils the stars
It brings to mind the night you left
To the distant drums of war
I walk out to our favorite spot
The wet grass soaks my clothes
I stand upon the rocky ledge
And once more I hold you close
The creek was always your best friend
And now I can see why
There are so few things that have no end
So few things that don't die
I find I can¹t resist a smile
When I finally let you go
Ashes drifting on the breeze
To the creek so far below
The creek was running high tonight
When I crossed the the bridge
The storm had flattened all the grass
In the fields along the ridge
When the moon peeked through the ragged clouds
I swore I heard you call
Just a twisted joke of wind and mind
The cruelest joke of all
by Lorne P Clarke copyright 2003
The creek is running high tonight
There's flooding near the bridge
The storm has flattened all the grass
In the fields along the ridge
When the moon peeks through the ragged clouds
I swear I hear you call
Just a twisted joke of wind and mind
The cruelest joke of all
The creek is shining silver white
As the wind unveils the stars
It brings to mind the night you left
To the distant drums of war
I walk out to our favorite spot
The wet grass soaks my clothes
I stand upon the rocky ledge
And once more I hold you close
The creek was always your best friend
And now I can see why
There are so few things that have no end
So few things that don't die
I find I can¹t resist a smile
When I finally let you go
Ashes drifting on the breeze
To the creek so far below
The creek was running high tonight
When I crossed the the bridge
The storm had flattened all the grass
In the fields along the ridge
When the moon peeked through the ragged clouds
I swore I heard you call
Just a twisted joke of wind and mind
The cruelest joke of all
envoyé par Dave Arthur - 11/8/2005 - 04:28
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