Bob

Give me the reins, Bob.

Will you take me to the strand?

To the shimmering pools now the tide's out,

And the weeds and wee birds skittering,

Where your hoof prints dot the sand

with outlines of our passage,

Until the waves wash anew

And scatter the wee birds.

Will you take me to my dreams, Bob?

Will you hold me there while I spy

The picture of us in the dim corner

Of my childish world,

When there was no Bob, no strand,

No tittering wind nor skittering birds,

Just the sidhe glimpse of what might be

If only dreams could smile?

And now, Bob, we're us,

And we're here,

And I hold your reins,

And you hold me.

And the wee birds are skittering.