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On the blue-green rising, falling tide |
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Breathing in the pebbles |
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Sighing out the salt breeze |
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Chaff is blowing from the stubble fields |
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Leaving the dried earth land it threads the gate |
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Tunnel hedges |
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Old man's beard |
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Sticking to the wild plums |
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Old man's beard |
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And follows the pot-holed tracks |
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That lead to Shaletown |
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The ox-man's soul forever turns around |
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And ploughs the stubble field |
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Caught in the lonely mile |
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Between the roads to Shaletown |
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He watches the chaff leave his dry brown eye |
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And swing over rose-hip stile |
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To Shaletown |
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Under bronze-red sunset, cobweb clouds |
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Dipping to the shadows |
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Dancing through the dead trees |
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Over carts that struggle up the hills |
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Sticking into the sweat and blistered hands |
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Nailed sacks flap |
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From blackened walls |
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Flailing arms to welcome |
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From blackened walls |
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In to the groaning heart of Shaletown |
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The ox-man turns and walks into the wind |
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Towards the ceaseless sea |
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Ploughing the lonely mile |
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As chaff settles in Shaletown |
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The machines they groan and the hammers they pound |
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As night falls on Shaletown |
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The chaff settles in Shaletown |
