There's a blaze upon the bog
On sphagnum mattresses we lie
Through the dewy dusk we'd roam, where the outlands were our own
We were the catchers of the spark
Blacklisted lovers in the dark
& that swan, a soul in flight
Those dark wings cutting through the night
We grew up the special cases
We got our love of open spaces
From our days upon the bog
& when the arrows went to mass on Sunday morn
We let a sorrow settle on the world
Like the early morning fog
Back then when love was just a game
The young Kilbride & Hester Swain
The blood bouquet, the peat perfume
The wind it howled, a savage loon
That would stab you in the face
Disappear a sibling without trace
A wild to be barefooted bride
Her misplaced sense of social pride
We grew up the special cases
We got our love of open spaces
From our days upon the bog
& when the arrows went to class on Monday morn
We’d dance like sparrows balanced on the corn
In the early morning fog
The congregation they were crazy
To ever think you’d have a price
& you attracted to the fight
For a traveller place is never easy
But when you're raised upon a blade
The comfort keeps you up at night
This bruised brown bog's where you belong
It's where you heard you mother’s song
A cursed chord stemmed to her navel
The flower I flung in to her grave
We grew up the special cases.
We got our love of open spaces
From our days upon the bog
& when the arrows went to mass on Sunday morn
We let a sorrow settle on the world
Like the early morning fog.
supported by 5 fans who also own “The Flower I Flung into Her Grave”
Gosh. Someone has shapeshifted into my life.
A testament to incredible songwriting and musicianship by those with mastery of their craft, in my humble opinion.
So grateful for art that gives voice to life's experiences and dreams and all that really matters. This is music that really matters.
have heart, will listen