Morgan

Over East the daylight grows,
‘Til the cawing of the crows wakes Morgan,
In the dying dark he gathers up his random scattered clothes,
Shoves the coffee pot back in the fieldstone hearth,
Where a few fire-eyes still glow,
Hums an old familiar tune while he’s figurin’ where to mow,

File the scythe blade ’til it gleams,
Like the silver night time dreams of Morgan,
Roll his pants legs up and head out down along the red dog road,
Lord, it takes more steps to make the journey now,
Than it did short years ago,
Down the hollows through the fields to forgotten graves he goes,

Morgan, old-time in his ways,
Looking at tomorrow with the eyes of yesterday,
Dreams and friends have all passed on,
And who’ll remember where they sleep,
When old man Morgan’s gone?

To the friends who dream alone,
By the homestead they once owned comes Morgan,
Where the cellars and the hand-dug wells are slowly cavin’ in,
By the fallen chimney, down the cabin path,
Where the daffodils still grow,
Autumn weeds are waving now, so he takes his scythe and mows,

Morgan, old-time in his ways,
Looking at tomorrow with the eyes of yesterday,
Dreams and friends have all passed on,
And who’ll remember where they sleep,
When old man Morgan’s gone?