Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields
Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs
Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come
And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend
Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet
The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds
And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields
Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs
Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come
And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend
Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet
The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds
And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip