MILES FROM HALIFAX
Deep silence of the water as the storm it
Great trees with snow so laden their brave
boughs bend and bend,
The night is closing round us and the wild
wind coldly blows,
The weaver leaves his cottage to tread
that lonely road.
For fifteen hours we've laboured from dawn
till late at night,
And blindness creeps upon us in this
A tyrant spell has bound us, as the looms
they clatter on,
A city sinking in the mist, a place where
hope has gone.
We hear the clogs a chatter on stones like
a crocodiles back,
Reptilian streets a wet with mist as the
weaver humps his pack,
Past dry stone walls all hewn by men to
stand for a hundred years,
Beyond the lonely gibbet where dead men
shed no tears.
And here we live in poverty we work until
Wan glances flung across the hills, no
colour fills the sky
We tease, we turn, we spin, we woof, we
break our aching backs,
And if we ever live again, be it miles
© Joe Stead - Fore Lane
Music - December 1996
eMail comments to me.
December 1996. Nora had gone shopping one Saturday afternoon and I
had settled down in the house on my own intending to write a song,
but with nothing special in mind. Suddenly a lady walked though my
living room door. She informed her name was Emile Bronté.
Apparently seeing me troubled she had simple popped through a hole in
the time continuum. At least a couple of the lines of this song are
definitely hers. She suggested that I sing the last two lines of each
verse twice in order to give the audience a chance to join in. When I
suggested that she might like to join me one night at a folk club she
replied (and I quote) "I wouldn't be seen dead in a folk club". Up
until that moment I had thought she was quite a nice lady.