The Ghost on the Moors

A metaphor for the struggle to be discovered. I could so clearly see the ghost on the moors, treading in circles, only noticed when she has finally gone.

Many a time she had been here before
with autumn beneath her layen out  on the floor
bold and bare footed she had many a sore
she'll still be there in the morning

Broken beneath her the wood from the trees
the paper thin corpses of springs finest leaves
she treads there frequently but never is seen
and she'll still be there in the morning

She walks with her hands both  held out to her side
fingertips brushing the ferns passing by
she walks with her head turned toward the moons light
and she'll still be there in the morning

Gently oh gently she moves on her way
still to be there in the morning

The footsteps behind her fall silently lain
the leaves underneath her all rot and decay
The clothes that she wares are all fading and grey
but she'll still be there in the morning

Her song has become as the breath from her lungs
her delicate whispers the gentlest of songs
her melody is carried by the wind to the sun
but she'll still be there in the morning

Gently oh gently she moves on her way
she'll still be there in the morning

One day she'll fall silent she'll go there no more
and leave just an echo from land to the shore
and we'll tell the tale the ghost on the moors
but she'll not be there in the morning

Gently oh gently she moves on her way
she'll not be there in the morning

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