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Our footsteps o'er the Doggerland, |
|
chased retreating ice and snow, |
|
left us breathing high and dry, |
|
Land's End to Scapa Flow. |
|
The seeds of Albion, wind-blown |
|
free, scattered to the moors, |
|
dormant beneath the the soggy heath |
|
where stouter oaks will grow. |
|
All across the Doggerland |
|
All across before the tides |
|
Across with boar and elk and wolves |
|
Take the high lands near and wide |
|
Strike with rock and flint and |
|
bone, follow trail and hoof. |
|
Onwards to another place, a place to raise a roof. |
|
And these four walls to shelter |
|
us upon this blessed plot: |
|
This earth, this realm, this England |
|
- island, alone, aloof. |
|
All across the Doggerland |
|
All across before the tides |
|
Across with boar and elk and wolves |
|
Take the high lands near and wide |
|
Back across the Doggerland, Costa villa overkill. |
|
Warm farmhouses in Tuscany |
|
challenge Winter's will. |
|
We pensionable, geriatric, |
|
sun-creased wrinklies long |
|
for this earth, this realm, this |
|
England, a burial ground to fill. |
|
All across the Doggerland |
|
All across before the tides |
|
Across with luggage, kids and sunscreen |
|
Melted mortgage, dreams that died |
|
All across the Doggerland |
|
All across before the tides |
|
Across with boar and elk and wolves |
|
Take the high lands near and wide |
