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Kevin Johnson
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Kedron Brook
In the last light of evening sun,
when summer grasses spoke of early dew,
I took an unfamiliar turning,
And so I wandered,
in the power of some strange subconscious yearning,
Down the turnings and the twistings of the road,
Till the sun was gone from the distant hill,
And Kedron Brook seemed strangely still.
Visions of sunsets and soft summer skies,
Like cellophane papers that danced in my eyes,
Echoes of footsteps that wandered their way,
Through the last, lonely lights of the day,
Feelings of feelings that sent my head reeling,
just wondering how it could be,
That the feelings of something so strangely confusing,
were strangely familiar to me,
Like the feeling of something I seemed to recall,
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but I couldn't remember it all,
The feeling as though I had stepped through a door,
and I knew I had been there before.
When the gentry were waltzing to the gentle maxinas,
And the hansom cabs swayed,
like young ballerinas,
And life was as sweet as an old concertina,
that rattled its way through a holiday,
When the night was the sight of the weary lamplighters and the crowded marquees,
Of the bare-fisted fighters, And the bustles and bows of the Saturday nighters,
were rustling their way through a Saturday,
When the world twirled around to an old-fashioned sound,
and the seasons were young in the ground.
Did I once stand there at Kedron Brook,
watching the sun going down?
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