Way beyond purple eves a melody tiptoes by.
Hear it drift dream-like lost in some old slow
English folk scene where long haired Hippies keen and cry
Rare thoughts of passed time.
Even now they sing Sandy’s song.
Death did not ponder long.
Oh, ‘twas at her parents home he set her leaving.
Even then he knew ‘twas time for her to go.
Steps stepped on holiday down the stairway to grieving,
Took with no thoughts of time.
Her fall came so sudden though,
Even now they miss her so.
The singer may now be silent, but not her song.
It twitters in bird tweets of spring after the snow
Musically asking the question that she asked for so long
Each of us of time.
Good songs on breezes blow.
Only God knows where the time goes.