In the dreamtime my spirit goes
back to the dirt hills of Avonlea.
To stand between the prairies green and gold
and the spreading blue above.
And my companions stand beside me,
the living and the dead.
In the golden afternoon we wander
the cool green hills and talk and laugh
and weave the web between our hearts
as ancient magic rises from the twisted grass.
And as the sunset glory paints the west we sit,
feel the wind blow through our hair
and listen to the silence.