Yvone by S. Deegan

There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane
Theres old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain
There are cherry petals falling and a cuckoo calling, calling
And a score of larks, God bless em, but it's all pain pain

For you see I am not really there at all, not at all!
I'm in the trenches, where the Crump-crumps fall
And the bits of shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming
That, in fancy, I am seeming back in old Saint Paul

And I've thought about it often since I came down here
And I never thought that any place could feel so deer
All the silver winstone houses and the rosy men in blouses
And the kindly, white-capped women, with their eyes spring clear!

And mothers, sitting; knitting where their roses climb
And the Angelus is calling w/ a soft soft chime
And the sea-wind comes caressing and the golden light's a blessing
And Yvone? Yvone is guessing that it's milking time

& it's Sunday, for she's wearing her embroidered gown
& she draws the pasture pickets & the cows come down
& their feet're powdered yellow & their voices, sunny mellow
& They bring a scent of clover & their eyes are brown

& Yvone is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue
& her lips are made for laughter (& her teeth are, too!)
& her mouth is like a cherry & a dimple, mocking merry
& it's lurking in the very cheek she turns at you

So, I walk beside her, kindly, & she laughs at me
& I heap her arms with lilac, from a lilac tree
& a golden bell is ringing and a golden peace is bringing
out a thousand birds, all singing of how good it is to be

& what are powdered lips for if they can't be kissed?
& I heap her arms with blossoms so she can't resist
& the cows are sadly straying & her mother must be saying
That Yvone is long delaying -- GOD HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED

It’s a nice, polite reminder that the Bosch are nigh
& we’re here to fight like devils &, if need be, die
& from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic, firing benches
Of the battered, tattered trenches, it’s a far, far cry

& still, I’m sitting dreaming in the glare & grime
& once again, I hear those church bells chime
& how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather
Will we fetch the cows together when it’s milking time?

• Acoustic
• Alternative
• Experimental
• rock and roll
• singer-songwriter
• soundscape
• Atlanta