He had no helm, nor blade of steel
while wandering ‘cross the moor
A snowy owl flew near to him;
he knocked door to door.
His shadowed cloak went gusting in the wind
and flew across the breeze.
But few would hear his tale for they
were slightly ill at ease.
His hair was starlight gleaming through night
often hidden but yet there
and when he drew back his dark hood
they’d see his starlight hair.
A wanderer without a name, had not
what was said to be home;
But when the morn broke on the hill
he’d lay his head upon his stone.