From the recording Servants Of A Plan
From the bridge above the fog I watch the passing trains,
Contemplating what you said.
The ticking clock above the station master's lonely cage
Is telling me I must move on.
The wind blown alleyways surround the public square,
The undertaker smiles at me
A sad procession made their way down Lover's Hill
Upon this windswept holiday.
The lines are down, there's something wrong
Communication sounds so far away..........
The Sunday bell is ringing, church looks in decay,
There'll be no service anymore.
And fishing boats lie empty on this windswept day
Like casualties of some lost war.