The Ghost Of A Tree - Richard Dawson

Riding through Yorkshire,

we come upon the ghost of a tree at Buttertubs Pass

Golden and green, flapping its leaves,

Though it is winter and there is no breeze.

Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers

Hopping in amongst the curling boughs

Then comes a shout from one of our party

Old Albert Bousefield’s fallen down a hole

Hope upon hope, fastened to a rope

Not able to ascertain how deep it goes.

«Albert can you hear me?

Make a sound!

If you can’t make a sound then clap two stones»

Leaving behind our friend in the lime pit

We hurry on in quiet dread

Into the fog, smothering the Dales

The raindrops are falling like the bars of a jail

Buried in the arsehole of the world

A row of burned out huts we made our beds

Lying awake looking up through the black wooden beams

I can see the Milky Way

Comes there a scream out of the sky

A great ball of fire goes hurtling by

Everyone’s awake now.

What the hell

is happening today?

It’s all so queer

Rising at dawn to find Thomas Knox

has not from his sleep been summoned forth

Face like a mask, fixed in a gasp,

We wrap him in blankets and we cover him with grass

Onward with our journey through Tow Law

Over Headley Hill, past Hanging Stone

Called on an inn to fill our bellies

With dark bloody meat and sour black beer

There we were warned never to stray

Far from the road through Kayo Bog

Several of the children from the village

Disappeared last month without a trace

Three hours later we go in single

file through a maze of moaning soil

Reeking of dung, droning of flies

The moss on the trees glows as we pass by

There is something awful alive in this place

We are most relieved to leave behind

The moon is a peach in the brown fields of Kibblesworth

It won’t be long 'til we get home

Cramp in our guts, bile in our throats

Mischief undulating through our bones

Suddenly the city lights around us

Disappearing up into the clouds

Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers

Hopping in amongst the curling boughs