Tide

The winter widths of Solomon's loft
they find but true astray

The tide will flush another storm
and she will find her way

With lines of food and clothing seen
our roles are now reversed

The morning peaks of bitter cold
and they will hide your Hearst

Mourning time is all but passed
the time to seek is near

Why should chase be the only pleasure
when all we have is fear?

Fear of love and fear of manse
the fall is wreaking soft

Mind the tithe and list the dooms
of all the ones we've lost