On our way to Rochester for the summer.
We camped along the cold, dark river.
She sits by the water, praying and muttering.
Spring is starting to green the cold and dead.
We made it through another winter by the sea.
Fire and warmth, human touch, truest prayers.
A priestess will bless us, sanctify our dreams.
Rochester, where the angels dwell in caves.
Our motorbike will make it there once more.
The cold, dark river is answering her curses.
Two more days ride to the ancient forests.
That we’ll make it together, prayer answered.
All that can be hoped for in these winters.