Eastfield - Archie Fisher

Twas the third of November in 79

When I crossed Bowden moor in a flurry of snow

And the heat of the warm in the old transit truck

And the fuel gauge leaned over on low

Away to the southwest the winter rolled in

A swirl of white flakes caught the pale evening glow

And the pinpoint of light from the farm on the hill

Flickered bright through the trees and the snow

'Cause many’s the pillow where I’ve lain my head

From a bunk on a ship to my coat on the ground

And there’s many the door that I’ve closed at my back

From a shack to the best place in town

But there’s a feeling you get when you’re heading for home

Be it ten thousand miles or a trip to the town

And it came to me then as the winter sun set

And the curtain of twilight came down

The more that you win then the more there’s for losing

The more that you love then the more you’ve to fear

And I changed down to third as I climbed to the farm

Trying to silence that voice in my ear

'Twas the 15th of March, 83 was the year

On the west headland motorway spattered with rain

In a beat-up old Volkswagen headed for north

When I next heard that voice once again

I remembered the hopes that had been in my heart

When I crossed Bowden moor back in 79

And the years in between that had ripped me apart

And the lightning that struck down the pine

I numbered each fence-post from roadside to berm

And counted each rock in the dry sandstone wall

And I numbered the golden-coiled flowers on the winds

And I counted the autumn beads fall

I looked to the northerly Yewden hills crest

And south to the crags of the Rubislaw crown

And I heard the black crows flying in from the west

AS the farm in my dreams tumbled down

The more that you lose then the more there’s for gaining

The less that you ask for the more you don’t mind

Any road that you travel’s a long lonely way

When you know you’ve left nothing behind

I came down from a grandmother bound to the land

On a West Island croft on the Battersea shore

And was named for a grandfather went to the see

And now I must wander once more

And there isn’t a trade where I won’t try my hand

There’s never a hill I’m not ready to crime

And there isn’t a grief that I don’t understand

As I empty the fullness of time

And still when the autumn’s glow silvers to frost

And the sweet scent of wood smoke is sharp in the air

I remember the loves and the hopes that I lost

And a part of me wants to be there

So now when I cross Bowden moor in the snow

And the light beckons me there’s a game that I play

I pretend to the crossroads that it’s homeward I go

And I turn to the east and away

The more that you win then the more there’s for losing

The longer you love then the more you’ve to fear

The more of the choice then the more of the choosing

And the voice that rings in the gale