Willametta Road from Mildepond by A.p. Harbor

God is a whistle through an empty hollow.
Some say they can hear it, elusive as a pinhole,
while they wander through the foliage of another time.

God drank his whiskey with witchy mothers,
distilling their faith in wicker cupboards,
when in the crooked, quietest hour of the night, they found it there.

They said to me, “I don’t know where it goes.
Defy not the word to follow your ghosts.
If led to the gate of the gully, you should know,”
they whispered to me, “I don’t know where it goes.”

Towers of rusting tires rise in the winter,
when the treeline dwindles and disciples whisper
that the road was made very, very wrong.

If honeysuckles grew here once, they do no longer.
Would our mothers and our fathers have picked them then, I wonder?
I grew up down yonder.

Two figures on the road still a-drifting.
Symbols on old houses meant for wishing.
I can still hear the night bird whistling
down the old Willametta Road.

• Alternative
• antifolk
• folk pop
• folktronica
• indie pop
• indie rock
• Morehead