Deep in the maidenhead fern in the meadow 

Is one in a circle of murmuring shadows,

The rosemary trails like a memory she would forget.

She was a painter but she was the cobblers wife, 

She could have drawn the scene though it would take a life,

Under the embers the ashes of Amber's regret.

She moved around like a leaf in the alleyway,

Somehow avoiding the raindrops that came her way,

I was the street that she rested her feet upon once.

She could see death through the eyes of a sinner

And she held her cards so I couldn't begin with her,

Under the embers the black coals of Amber's conscience.

Emerald fields with pixies and portals 

And Smoky-Joe's bar where the stars are immortal,

She had a parallel world in her head she said once.

Scratched forty-fives from the archives a mile tall,

Sketchings of actresses filling her hallways,

And under the embers the black coals of Amber's conscience.

I know this city's a grid of damnation,

But she gave me burdocks and yellow carnations,

Although antirrhinums and violets she gave me once.

I see no fire and I hear no thunder 

But still I lie tired in slumberless wonder,

'Cause under the embers the black coals of Amber's conscience.

One screwed-up paper cup tells me she's leaving,

And I would be honest if she would believe me,

But she doesn't live by the quick she said, I ain't dead yet.

Come to the ferns and we'll run with the gypsies

And I'll build an urn and we'll scatter in poppies

These ashes of sorrow, the ashes of Amber's regret.

Down to the station with suitcase and freedom,

Run like an exile and savour the feeling

And I'll ask forgiveness for thinking some lines could abet.

Deep in the maidenhead fern in the meadow

Was one in a circle of murmuring shadows

And under the embers the ashes of Amber's regret.