the morning is humming
it's a quarter past nine
i should be working down in the vines
but i'm lying here with a good friend of mine
watching the sun in her hair
i pick the grapes from the hills to the sea
the fields of france are a home to me
ah
but today lying here is a good place to be
i can't go anywhere
but as we slip in and out of embrace
like some old and familiar place
reflecting all of my dreams in her face like before
on the last day of june 1934
just out of cambridge in a narrow country lane
a bottle-green bentley in the driving rain
slips and skids round a corner
then pulls straight again
heads up the drive to the door
the lights of the party shine over the fields
where lovers and dancers watch catherine wheels
and argue realities digging their heels
in a world that's finished with war
and a lost wind of summer blows into the streets
past the tramps in the alleyways
the rich in silk sheets
and europe lies sleeping
you feel her heartbeats through the floor
on the last day of june 19. on the night that ernst roehm died voices rang out
in the rolling bavarian hills
and swept through the cities and danced in the gutters
grown strong like the joining of wills
oh echoed away like a roar in the distance
in moonlight carved out of steel
singing all the lonely