Dark days are a-coming,
Say the geese on the wing,
The horse in the stall,
The tiny, scuttling things with small voices.
Dark night is falling and the stars are dim,
Say the sailors on the sea,
The seals on the isle,
The gulls on the cliff.
When will it end, we ask,
The people on the edge,
The old and the sick,
The small scurrying people with small voices.
Poets cannot read the future in their words,
Or cups of tea,
Or the flight of swallows,
Or the waddling walk of the magpie,
But the sunlight through the trees,
Moonlight on the lake,
The stars that shine through cloud and raindrops,
Weave their beauty into the world,
And we can say, Ah,
This is what should be,
In our millions of small voices.