Other Colors, Other Clocks
A summer funeral home in a pound shop Essex town
The flowers are chemical The doves bleached pigeons
We are a family in fabricated grief Gusping heated facks
Taste in an electrical breeze There was bloody water down his sink
And ripped up reminders surrounding his bin Here is love's finality
It's knife, needle and rumour mill Scarring the skin of what we believed possible
within his life Now we are four children
Bewildered, glued together by photo albums And staring at each other's shoes
Our memory fused by a sleight of hand Street corner card trick con
He is gone And tonight
Alone
A deep ticking Will quicken inside our private rooms
Cutting time into slices To be served on other clocks
Come Christmas We'll know this for sure
How we followed his star Our feet, red, raw
We'll know this for sure How we followed his star
How we followed his star