The Field Singer
Words and music by Isembard, A.
Cast away the city’s heat,
the vaulted arches of factories,
leave the meadows gently sweep us on into the town.
Crow skies unfurl,
above a sleeping factory church,
dreaming deep of earth as we rattle through the vale.
Fields 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,
there’s a hope that flickers new aflame as long as I can see the sky.
Oh, and though I know 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 with the rain.
Retreading heady Summer nights,
far, familiar mountainsides,
you’ll have to answer for the time come the rising day.
Oh, and though I know this labour feels so long,
you’ll never have to walk this way alone,
Oh, 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, and leave these hopeless fears behind,
Wake, my wanderer, and walk the world under peerless skies.
Through the night a snowdrift falls,
a 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.
Oh, and though I know this labour feels so long,
well, you’ll never have to walk this way alone,
Oh, and though the dark may come to dog every road I run,
Well, the light that lights my way will lead me home.
