Their sharp tongues pick worms of thought
Far too early for Dick Turpin in his grave,
The green sward that blankets him is unquiet
And even death is no rest for a midnight highwayman.
If only hanging from a gallows tree, the ravens
Had not feasted on his eyeballs
He might have heard the wind gallop again
Blowing back the mane of his black horse
Until the steaming vapours mingled in the mist
And under the starlit candles counted jewels
Dreaming of the open road and always
Being a ghost rider secret in his solitude.
But the damn birds steal each secret
When they pick with morning’s needles
In their sharp beaks, they are the only ones
Free to ride the wind.