17 February 2013
The Hunter, dressed in antler, And a cloak of giant thorn, Appeared like Legend from the fog This Sunday morn
Wrapped in his forest, Boundaries all around Staring out from the edge, Of his ancient hidden world
What do you see Arthur? What do you make of your land? Is this kingdom as great As the battles won demand?
She is still green, my England She is still proud, my England She still lives, my England She still breathes, my England
Arthur, puzzled, Grasps his bone horn Raises it to his lips, And blows, blows,blows, all morn
The fog horns sound, like Treasure ships glorious but lost in vast ocean.
Fog Horn • Opuss № I