We sat on the cape and watched the sky rape
the future with fuel and smoke.
And I saw you stare at the white in the air.
And some the punch line’s consoling a joke.
There’s strong metal flying like birds that are dying,
turning their eyes to the south.
We stood in the sand, and they silenced the band.
You put your hand to your mouth.
Ah Jane, how can it be?
You only used four colours on me.
That dark Tuscan ground we look for and found
in a pail that once bore water
was dug from a spot and put in a pot
that held the remains of her father.
While the earth played it cool that note from her school
sat like a butterfly’s wing,
softer than oil, gave shade to the soil,
but could not bring her to sing.
The more I grow older, the less I’m a soldier -
that portrait of Frederick the Great
we saw on the wall in a Brandenburg hall
of an army that once had a state.
And that little piss thunder that blew her from under
the reign of centuries’ parade
fed on the sadness and blew like the madness
in the wind of the love that she made.
There’s blood in the sun, and the moon has begun
stripping the hours to pull
my hands from your hips, my mouth from your lips
and the picador’s lance from the bull.
My shoulder is stained with the blood of your name
and the seal of your heart.
The seas are not dry and the rocks are still high,
but Jane, we’re apart.
When Chris Coole was playing his banjo part on this track, I called John and held the phone up to the control room speakers. It was pretty incredible.