Hung on a Thin Thread - White Hinterland

Come along in my mackinaw

I’ll point you where you need to go

Though our path may bend and yaw

You won’t get lost

With my pointed prow and square stern

We’ll use our arms for oars

To spoor little schools of fish

Make festoon-shaped grooves in the fickle waves

'Til the howling wind ushers us to leave

Out at sea for days

I sleep most afternoons away

And you anxiously compass us

'Til we see land

But the land we knew

Was now a new landscape

And the howling wind ushered us to leave

But you wanted a closer look

Then gripped to the rail, how our cheeks turned pale

To see the flying machines near clip the houses

And throw kisses to the sandbar

Little tendrils of smoke trailing out of the exhaust

In parabolic wakes, swooping low like gulls

Causing the town to tremor and to shake

It was clear that city was nothing

But an aluminium piece of junk

Oh, and the howling wind ushered us to leave

But we couldn’t move we stood forever changed

When something ends, something has to begin

When the filaments of fiber

From their flares caught afire

Your hair looked like spark on a wire

I would have paid my last dollar

To see you lambent like that

Lit by the light of ten thousand shackled suns

Being hung on a thin thread

Sift amongst the debris for half-hearted dreams

Remnants of pocket change

Pretty, frilly, thrown-away things

Gauze and dust and shards of glass

Bricks and bended straws and greyhounds' teeth

And the howling wind ushered us to leave