Traveling the wind plucked by harps.
I’m taken to Tavistock where is mentioned,
One of the first printing presses.
With a band of locals
I am again reawakened to the
Sound of some home I’ve yet to receive.
Cornwall calls, yet I’ve not yet flown.
Music, friends, and rocky land
Beg my attention.
Sleeping on the Gig
While little one floats
Through my ears.
© Nov 2004 -Sonja J. Johnston
Thursday, April 28, 2005
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