The air is full of falling leaves,
winter’s crows caw,
tears of fog fall from the eaves,
as the mist unveils the things you never saw.
The running hound, the hare
hand in glove
call it love
to chase, to flee with so much care
And there, where the twilight turns the shadows blue,
buried in the cold dark ground
underneath the ancient yew,
all you prayed for can be found.
So the running hound, the hare
join thought, desire, memory
to chase, to love, and see
all the things that aren’t there
Though hidden by his crow-dark windblown cloak,
the one-eyed wandering king
remembers all the words you never spoke
and knows they form the rhymes the wind will sing.
Then the resting hare, the hound
will light their lamps for you
in the shadows underneath the ancient yew
where all things can still be found
As the leaves are scattered by the wind, the record spins once more,
but this time there will be time
and you’ll have the chance to see all that you missed before.