_through the mist

Through the mist stands a tower
That no-one has seen
But on every hour
The chimes resound
As the bells ring out
In dusty old books
Pictures and graphs
Estimate details
And speculate facts
Of the tower’s age and its origin.

If legend’s believed then guarding the tower’s doors
Are a brethren of owls who chase away trespassers.

Late in the night the villagers meet
To share their proposals of who it should be
To walk through the mist
Outside of the walls
To see if there’s really a tower at all
But week after week there’s no volunteer
Just frozen expressions and unspoken fear
Sooner or later all will be clear
On one sunny morn when the mist disappears

Seven miles north of Robin Hood’s Bay
There’s a series of potholes
That run right the way to the western tip of the Peak District.
After every four years at quarter to three
A genius flautist appears from the caves
Playing skilfully
The purest of melodies

After every performance a squadron of local moles
Shout out their encores although it’s to no avail

Just out of sight
With a hipflask of gin
There’s a record executive stroking his chin
Pondering life and what it all means
And whether he’s satisfied sealing his deals
Maybe he’ll sell everything that he owns
To purchase a beautiful North Yorkshire home
The fresh country air of Hutton-le-Hole
Has got to be better than selling fool’s gold.

On a clear cloudless night we turn of the headlights
When the moon shines so bright we can see the way

Climbing up the winding staircase
Looking at the hedgehog landscape
Scratch away the thin veneer
Underneath lies the original features