The Grey Lady stands
back to the wind,
looking out forever across the shifting seas.
Delicate face beneath her hood,
her cloak wrapped tight against the chill;
one slender hand upon her hip,
still she stands as the grey stones,
the grey stones, the grey stones,
tall against the sky.
The wind sighs through the sedge,
whispering stories down the years,
and she sighs, the grey lady,
echoing the wind
with stories of her own.