December storm it will drift along,
It came and now it's gone,
Even when we glanced up high,
Occasional showers still left that wet our eyes,
Small and large birds,
Wild and some rare,
Sang to us as we moved into the meadow without a care,
The strand so wet but we're conscious of the peace,
And to the distance on Mayne Island,
Faraway sounds that strike the ground,
For the thunder with those soft clouds test,
So those winter leaves are memories,
Only silhouettes along our paths we've chosen to see,
Should please all the large white gulls that wait too leave,
They've cried down to us to stay for a prayer,
Those winged passengers ascend towards the troubled air,
We've chased away their tears as they soar out to sea and dare.
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