If history

repeats itself,

you might be willing underlings

perhaps, you’re already oiling the gears

again, keeping things simple inside

helping the mystery machines rise

as fate says serve their greasy whims

and metal hearts reside

in a forest of sublime possibility

new beasts hide in industry

and pistons turn again.

New society?

Sink or swim you will think -

Art and Science were never allies,

more like brothers breathing rust

spitting out the things

they used to trust -

Imagine chiaroscuro 
turned to dusk

and then a painter, 
counting dust,

gasp for air or gasp in awe,
the choice was never really yours,

you consume you are consumed

for consummation’s sake.
And on, creeps change

like a furnace glow

growing, seeping into night

then on to day - no collision -

here and now is all, just too slow,

and if history does indeed repeat itself

this is something we should know.
Do not assume that this,

was always thus.

Below the moon at Uffington
between the folds of chalkhill gown,
we sit beneath the White Horse stars,
watch flames and sing this song.

O’ Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
this night it shall be ours

Above, see nervous lanterns rise
like strange birds from another time,
we wait below this all tonight,
and contemplate the flow.

Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
we know, this night is ours.

Below the moon at Uffington
we sing beneath your ancient night
we contemplate the eventide
and tell of White Horse downs.

So stars and embers raise your crown,
as woodsmoke turns, the hours must -
we hold our simple truth to trust,
the night indeed is ours to own.

Now sit, and sing with us.