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lyrics
The Horizon burned in Amethyst,
Autumn winds brought rain and snow,
Air had thickened into mist,
Which licked the roots in the valley below,
Where the shepherd’s wife had gone to dig,
A ditch beneath the standing stones.
The diggings not the difficult part,
It’s the covering up with soil and clay,
Travellers travelling Easterly,
Spot the burning hay upon a ridge,
Poor William did own that flock,
I wonder if he’s seen the flames.
He watched while we were sleeping,
His eyes rolled back and his mouth agape,
And took without speaking,
Then burned the syringe in a paper bag,
And the smoke touched the ceiling,
And the runes it cast read through a glass,
Darkly, but then face to face.
The Days pass in sequent toil,
As all forwards do contend,
The pillars once the main of light,
Fall to obscurity in the end,
Now the ground is bleached by flowerbed,
In Albion you’ll rest your head.
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