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We Were Ten
We were Ten, both in age and number.
Lively lads without a care.
Hunting rabbits, between the stone walls.
of the cold northern hill.
William went first, when his tractor rolled.
He lived for an hour.
Screaming and clawing what once were his legs.
On the side of the cold northern hill.
Brian and Allen, they went down the old mine.
As we all had, before.
Coal damp, methane, call it what you will.
Beneath the cold northern hill.
Paul and Nigel lived for their bikes.
The newest, the best and the fastest.
They both died on the same day, a year apart.
On the road to the cold northern hill.
Tim moved away, first the the Army, like me.
Then Canada, Alberta.
He came home to die, to be with his mum.
On the flank of the cold northern hill.
Pat, Michael and Ken.
They all went to that match, in Bradford, you know, the big fire!
They`re all buried together, in the old Norman church.
At the top of the cold northern hill.
I am the last,
the last son, of the village,
that clings to the ridge.
But I can’t go there,
I won’t face those ghosts.
I have ghosts of my own, here!
