Fire in the Fields
When I heard you singing Place To Be,
I imagined fields on fire; August was slowly rising,
priestesses and their daughters
wore white robes
as smoke and heaven came.
There were combine harvesters,
dried-out tracks from wheels,
a dormouse scattered,
leaving smoke to disappear.
It all returned to normal soon.
There you were singing Place To Be.
There was nothing ever in those fields