(by Jon Boden)

The news was on the church-house door
And all over the valley
Were stormclouds brewing in the east
And wildfire in the city
And all night long the hammers rang
And those who could were leaving
And those who stayed have gone to ground
And talk is harsh and fleeting

	And all that I can think about
	Is wood-smoke in the valley
	Kisses in the fallout shelter
	Dancing in the factory
	That closed so long ago
	And no-one ever goes there now

We cling to words like children
And seek for hidden meaning
Long after sense has ceased to be 
And reason is receding
But words have torn this world apart 
And left us stooped and pleading 
We shovel dust and hide our hope
And wrap ourselves in dreaming

	And all that I can think about
	Is wood-smoke ...

Tonight the curfew bells ring out 
Across the shrouded valley
And all the candles flicker out
And shadows claim their quarry
But I will take the blackthorn path 
Across the parish boundary
Where the ivy and barbed wire entwine 
And leaves fall all around me

	Then maybe I will catch the scent 
	Of wood-smoke ...

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