Rain drops its glistening veil,

born of combat in clouds,

on a Cumbrian village

unaware of the injury
it is about to receive.
Three gentle souls
gone from its body

for a land to be home.

Next week when the villagers

rub the sleep from their eyes,

they will hardly notice

the gray light of Earth
dimmed by the dearth.

The river nearby

will not remember

the squishing of girls' toes

but the birds will hear

its decrescendoing flow.

An oceans' air will bear these three

beams of silver and gold
to bring warmth to our cold
and youth to our old.

We await the sight
of Joy and Lizzy Light

the sound of Scarlett wings
the taste of sparkle springs.

We can scarcely quiet
the sound of our hearts
singing joy of our dawn

and hope of new starts.

To England we bow
for our language and now

three spirits it sends

a family of friends.

12/06/2002