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.

Life is just exhausting but we must live it still
looking for redemption and a heart shaped pill
battered like a butterfly jumping window sills
life is just exhausting but we must live it still.

Life is just exhausting and yes, you live it still
like cracking walls you build but never quite fulfill
the choice is yours to make, you know you have free will
but sometimes feelings, are the very hardest skill.

Take me up and take me down
hold me still, spin me round
stretch me wide and fold me flat
roll me thin then mould me fat.

Lean me over, fly me high
make me laugh and make me cry
join the circuits, switch me on
you are all, and you is one.

Tell the tale then sing the song
push the bell, then drag along
make me crazy, make me sane
shake me lazy, wake me lain.

I am cleave and you are blade
I am just one in your parade
raise me higher than a stone
hold me tighter than the sun.

You are all, and you is one.

This is where the rhythm is
this soft pushed bounce before the strokes
this snapping beat and accent too
inviting ghosts of crack and groove
and low my vantage swoops to dash.

This is air this rhythm fizz
this friction heat this hot-coal stoke
this movement out and pocket in
enticing hosts with smack and move
and slow my heated pulse is hatched.

This is prayer strong this rhythm is
this once hushed ounce now pounded smoke
this balanced rush to fevered few respect now due
these beats compounding rough with smooth
and now, a vintage Zildjian splash.

Go where white horses lay
on green blanket down
hear young men tell tales
of old Marlborough town.

Run where country girls stay
we’re resting our heels
near riverbank’s bend
with spin in our reels.

Skip past bullrush and sway
where hill winds come
alive to our ways
in fields we roam,

And this, becomes our home.