1. |
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I love males, yet live makeless:
The long night and false dawn still lingers lonely
As day breaks my dike-brook’s bed
Diluting with grey light my Du-distilled soul.
I give birth, yet grave brothers.
My mothering bosom of womb-mouthing earth
Is death-witch and dearth’s country;
Both vessel you’re born on and vestige’s barque.
I bride men and breed Mordreds:
The world’s consummation weds its confounding;
The lightning of love’s moon-lore
Will strike dead the armed man sick-nursed in these arms.
I brave blood, a bereaved bride,
God’s mother and man’s Eve, a death-moth and Mary:
O, Arthur, ardent brother,
The love-sword you bury here seeds the whole world…
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2. |
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Ye feasters up on Fiddler’s Hill
Where crossroads meet the harrow,
Take care you don’t disturb the sleeping
Bronze Age burial barrow.
O shun this ground from dusk to dawn
Or live a dreadful tale
Of a Black Monk at the tunnel’s mouth
To turn your red lips pale.
Don’t follow the fiddler and his dog
To Walsingham under the hill
To lay the foul Benedictine ghost:
That fiddler lays there still.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
To the cheering local crowd,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above,
For I play both brave and loud.”
And so he fiddled and so they stamped
His three mile course underground
But his fiddle stopped under Fiddler’s Hill
In the silence of the mound.
Each dared the next down the tunnel’s mouth
But none would dare themselves
And at midnight the fiddler’s dog emerged
Like a hound bewitched of the elves.
His tail thrust down between his legs,
His frame a shivering wrack,
He howled and pined at the dreadful hole
But his master never came back.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
To the cheering local crowd,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above,
For I play both brave and loud.”
A violent storm drove everyone home
And when they awoke from sleep
The entrance was gone, the fiddler too,
Into a Nameless Deep.
In this county of beet and barley and beer,
This county of fish and farrow,
'There’s folks you can trust, there’s London folks,
And there’s folk who come out of a barrow...'
The moral of this, and it’s old as the hill,
Is that mounds aren’t for tunnelling,
If a grave tune plucks the strings of your heart,
Keep that devil under your chin.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
And half his boast came true,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above!”
But he lost them half way through.
words © Gareth Calway 2012. Published in Doin Different, new ballads from the East of England, Poppyland 2016.
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3. |
Wicked Fen
02:30
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4. |
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5. |
Weirdworth's Lucy
03:13
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6. |
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7. |
Last of the Iceni
02:34
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8. |
Three Blind Mice
04:09
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9. |
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10. |
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11. |
A Crime of Passion
06:26
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12. |
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13. |
The End of the Line
04:25
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Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling Sedgeford, UK
It's all right, folks, we're married. A marriage of melody and rhythm ( flirting with harmony & timbre.) Old married woke
folk, indie, Norfolk noir, beat poems, ghazals & Americana for the world from NW Norfolk. Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz lead & harmony vocals, drum & bass. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats.
garethcalway.blogspot.com/p/doin-different.html
... more
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