Dawn with the Drifter

BY CAROLE NICHOLS


Those dawning hours when the world is still,
If you venture to visit upon the hill,
There's a sense that you're not alone;
Yet old Luke has been long, long gone.

Still, there's a feel that he's restless,
In the dusky, dewy, pre-morn freshness;
That he walks among the tombstones high,
The wind sending echos of his lonely sigh.

You sense that he's drifted for so long,
Playing his music, singing his song;
No place to rest for his weary heart,
The sadness of Luke can tear you apart.

For he lived the life he sang about;
He suffered and cried, there's no doubt.
In the shadows stands a gaunt, thin man,
Guitar on his back, hat in his hand.

Hollow eyes glint witht he unshed tear;
He is so glad that we visited here.
To remember the music that came from his soul,
And the songs unsung, that death stole.

When the sun breaks the dark on the hill,
You can hear that lonesome whipoorwill;
Kowliga gives his plaintive wail,
As the train moves on down the rail.

And you feel the loneliness of the tomb,
As the drifter fades along with the gloom;
A ray of light touches the cold stone,
You know that for now, old Luke is gone.