Down by the river,
not far along there,
lies the weir,
round stones,
a hope and a care.
Down by the Pikehole
where deep water lies.
The sun breaks the trees
where the fisherman ties.
Flies of all colour.
Magenta and green.
Down in the meadows
where he's never seen.

Feeling faint a lonely saint
makes his way to heaven.
At the bus-stop on his own,
waits for the number 7.

And as the minutes pass away
he thinks about his final day,
when the bus comes drawing near,
in his eye there rests a tear.
He wonders has his work been done,
was his life a battle won.
Shall it be his final time?,
is this soul truly divine?

Now the bus is heading west,
the saint will sleep, its time to rest.
And as the sun begins to set,
there's nothing that this saint regrets

He would walk there in the evening,
alone, and happy to be so for a while.
Wandering the beach and his mind,
kicking the useless flotsam aside.

Wandering still through the flotsam in his head.
Picking through what's useful and not.
Remembering the things he thought forgot,
remembering the words wished never said.
And then the wash of the waves would invoke a balance,
as if he was washing parts of the day away.
The sound of the sea would be calming,
like something his mother would simply say.

There were parts of his soul that were tired,
he knew, because he felt it reach deep down inside.
Down where the soul is on fire,
washing away with the advancing tide.
His eyes would lock on the lighthouse,
illuminating his face every once in a turn.
Sand would fall through his fingers,
he looked at the flames and all of the cinders.
Trying to gauge what could not be learned.
Just trying to gauge what could not be heard.

The fairy from yonder at night she would wander
under sparkling skies, the lush milkyway.
Skipped over bridges and ancient old ridges
along with the night and natures soft sway.
Till she came upon pixies sat loftly in ditches
who told her, "you'll soon see the cold light of day."
The fairy from yonder just laughed as she pondered,
something with light and love worth to say.
She gathered them round behind the old mound,
its said where the masters once knelt
and once prayed.
She told them the secrets
and shared natures trinkets,
and laughed as they all saw the cold light of day.
Laughed as they rejoiced the cold light of day.

Lets trace the moments
lost inside our heads.
When we had the energy
to get out of the bed.
All those days just wandering
trying to find our way.
Comfortably silently pondering
upon a winters day.
Sharing thoughts
sharing hopes
using the same bar of soap.

You and me kissing in the snow.
Lost inside the feelings that we show.

"Put this shell to your ear and listen,
tell me what you hear."
I tell him "its the ocean",
even though it's nowhere near.
My young head filled with wonder,
as the waves flow through my mind.
How is it that I hear it now?,
so far from Ballyheigue.
Those Sundays spilling ice-cream
in the back of your old car.
I drink coke and he drinks porter,
well worked fingers stained with tar.
Telling tales of saints n scoundrels,
men who worked the coast.
Its when I hold that old shell now,
I think I miss you most.