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Isembard's Wheel
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The Field Singer
Cast away the city's heat,
the vaulted arches of factories,
leave the meadows gently sweep,
us on into the town;
crow skies unfurled,
above a sleeping pastoral church,
dreaming deep of earth,
as we rattle through the vale.
Field aflock and evensong,
stirs the giants out beyond,
another year has been and gone,
in a blink of emerald eyes;
with a whisper, evening's leapt the lane,
trailing starlight in his mane,
well, there's a hope that flickers new aflame,
as long as I can see the sky.
Oh, and though sometimes this labour feels so long,
and my scattered lamplight falls before the dawn,
oh, and though the dark may come to dog,
every road I run,
well, the light that lights my eyes is burning strong.
Sleepless, mark the falling hours,
the watchful silence of the past,
melancholic, wasting doubts,
that sweep through in the rain;
retreading heady Summer nights,
far, familiar mountainsides,
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well, you'll have to answer for the time,
come the rising day.
Oh, and though I know this labour feels so long,
well, you'll never have to walk this way alone,
and though the dark may come to dog,
every road I run,
well, the light that lights my way will lead me home,
yes, the light that lights my door is always on.
Well, now, wake, my wanderer,
to fields arrayed in fire and light,
wake, my wanderer,
raise your eyes and hold them high,
wake, my wanderer,
leave these hopeless fears behind,
wake, my wanderer,
and walk the world under peerless skies.
Through the night a snowdrift falls,
my shadow greets me in the dawn,
watching night recoil from chords,
left ringing in the light;
suspended seabirds wheel and call,
cos' they're timeless and above us all,
silhouetted shapes that fall,
and rise on the tide.
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