He walks the path where the tall grass sways
Past the workshop in the evening haze
Fingers find the latch undone
Light spills out from the setting sun
The keeper knows the turning tide
No lantern left to stem the slide
But in his palm a weight remains
Silver needle calls the plains
Silver needle in the dirt
Buried deep where the nettles sting
Guiding where the wild winds hurt
North is still a steady thing
Weeds climb the wall where the paint has peeled
Time wears the wood that the storms revealed
He sets the case on a wooden beam
Catches a glint in a dusty stream
The keeper knows the turning tide
No lantern left to stem the slide
But in his palm a weight remains
Silver needle calls the plains
Silver needle in the dirt
Buried
