Dark the night and waiting
expecting the the London Mail,
owls moth-wing o'er fallow fields
white silent watchers swooping,
foxes bark, scream and squall
'tis the season of their courting,
starlight silvers the sliding stream
as eastward it glides by marshes.
Wild things keep the lonely vigil
they the only fearless,
distant church bells mark the hours
safe within their steeples,
midnight strikes a single stroke
hoof beats drumming timeless,
a coachman's whip crack echoes
and his 'Hallo' chills the bone.
Swaying, bouncing, springs a-creaking
the London Mail coach is on the time ways,
racing over centuries of midnights
making deliveries down eternity,
bound to the highways of forever
circling, circling, onward, onward,
horses sweating, foam flying
carrying mail to the long forgotten.
