LAST ON THE HILL
(© Words and music by Paul F. Cowlan)
This is lovingly dedicated to my Mum. At 89 she doesnít always sleep well and, lying awake, often passes the dark hours by revisiting much-loved haunts of her childhood, in and around the village of Littleover, near Derby. Needless to say, all these rural scenes have since disappeared under roads and housing developments.
Sleepless nights in the autumn,
watching the stars go by.
Dreams wonít come, and the clock runs slow.
The house is cold and dark.
Glimmer of light at the window.
Hours to go till dawn.
What can you do to pass the time
till daylight comes again?
Walk again those hidden ways
where the skies are blue, and the long-dead days
are green and wide as the unspoiled land
that lay where the houses stand.
Maybe youíre the last on the hill,
and if you donít walk there nobody will,
because itís all built over with concrete and stone;
but you can still call it home.
Call it all back home.