The fragile white feathers are Her's no more,
I'm the one who looks at them every day,
The soft lines they leave in water are mine,
All the boats, the breathy mist, the cold breeze.
Looking down steep to an ancient city,
Don't know whose it was before is was mine,
Old warehouse; big wooden beams hold a roof
That's now keeping me dry; no old railway.
Cobble reminds it's not always been mine,
But since I stepped upon the stone it is,
I'm so wealthy with all that I own-
So why do I miss that small market town?
