Winter Weatherman

Far away I hear the swelling strings,
Where lightning ruffles the dirty wings,
Of heavenly theatres dancing with sins,
Which wash our muddy and bloody skins,
With stories unfit for modern kings,
Who meander mountains as they dream such awful, sad, and violent things,
I look up to sing,

I stare into the Sun and I drink from a river,
It is clear to see that I am a winter weatherman,

Far away I see the crying crones,
As waves trip over a crowd of stones,
And drunkenly tumble into family homes,
To leave a bed of sinew and bone,
On the shore of a no-man zone,
Where kings dance to an old song sung with a heartless beat and sinister tone,
I look out to sing,

I laugh at the horizon and I sniffle at the past,
It is clear to see I am a winter weatherman,

Far ahead I feel the wicked stares,
Which climb above the red smoke and flares,
From the forest in the valley decorated with snares,
Which snatch the fleeing children and hares,
And  hang them to bring the pilgrim a scare,
So the kings can show the princes where to cry and how to hunt the young bears,
I look down to sing.


Written and performed by Joseph Marcus Tungate.

Joe Tungate