Eggshell sky, song of the unborn lark.
Dawn wind breathes of Heaven.
A daisy raises trustful face to the young sun.
Life unfolds green through dark, dead leaves.

Sunlight rippling through soft waves on shingle
Foxglove bells ringing, and so nearly heard
Secret song of the running river,
Gone before we can ever catch the words.

Spiders’ webs silver in the mist.
Trees flame in old sunset, slow-burning.
Copper leaves dance away,
Turning and returning.

Bare twigs and ivy, winter berry-bearer,
In the damp, deep wood.
Mistletoe, growing green between earth and heaven.
On the cold, starlit hillside,
In the deep, quiet earth,
Her Lord, and the rising sun and the running deer.
In the night of death,
A new birth.

It was Lou and Pru and Daisy and Sue
All snug as a bug in a rug in the pub, safe and warm by the fire,
With a card-game to win, and a nice little gin,
Just as heart could desire.

But when girls sit together, there’s always some blokes
Who just can’t let them be.
So it starts with the jokes,
Then the leers, and the sneers, and the breath full of beers,
And hands wandering free,
And the loud, raucous laughter.
“So what are you up to, girls? Is it a hen-night?
We know what you’re after!
It’s a looking for men night,
When girls go pubbing!”

Pru grabbed a fire-iron from the rack,
She hit his shins with such a crack,
Then clocked him on the head.
“Nah, it’s girls’ poker night,” she said,
“We’re going clubbing!”