1. |
Freiston Shore
02:37
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2. |
The Whistling Girl
04:03
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Acting on a flight of fancy, the final flurries of a distant sun
But I am grounded; I am falling, I will return from where I’m from
Star-struck, sodden, petrified; for I’ve been turned to stone
For stealing in a boggart’s world, is the sacrifice I’m told.
Acting on a hangman’s hunch, I justified my crime
But I am jaded; I am calling, I will divulge my solemn oath
Hood-winked, tired, crucified; and I will hang in days
For treading out a different path, beyond the end of days.
I’m searching for the whistling girl, I’m following my nose
Through echoes of a distant sun in radiance so gold
But you won’t find her here, you won’t find her here, you won’t find her here
She’s lost in pipe-dreams magnified beneath the three-shire oak.
But you won’t find her here
But you won’t find her here.
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3. |
Icehouse Blues
03:29
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We heard their voices, but they were nowhere to be seen
Our patrol is searching for the lost ones of the heath
But this is no ordinary, three-dimensional hunt, for those that we seek; are lost in time
For out here, on this starless night there appears to be no fixed universal scale.
I thought I heard their voices, over by the Leadenham icehouse; but I was mistaken
The night can play strange tricks with sound; especially up here on the blasted heath
We pursue a hunch, and drop down the tangled embankment onto the old railway track
I hear the sound of an approaching engine, but no trains have run on this line for over fifty. years
I contemplate on the speed of sound and ponder on the life-span of this industrial resonance
Am I really hearing ghosts? Or maybe, it’s just another trick of the night
But I must not be distracted from my heathen quest. After all, time is not on my side.
We thought we’d made a breakthrough, over by the old Stone Pit Plantation
But we mistook a burning pile of rags, dumped beside the guide stone, for a campfire
It is an easy mistake to make especially when our quest is constantly being hindered by modern-day misconceptions of space and time
We know however, that our quarry is close by. For even the lost, seldom venture far
Hidden in plain-sight, we can sometimes hear their laughter, even on dark, dank nights like these.
The sun is about to rise, so we must abandon our quest and return to our barracks - concealed beneath the escarpment known as the Lincoln Edge
It is a Jurassic way that leads to no good
But it is the only path we know and tomorrow night we will continue our search -
until our lost ones are safely back within the fold.
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4. |
Bardney Riots
03:34
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We’re straightening; the river boys - down south of Bardney way
We dig the cut; of the Witham Lord – south-west at wet Southrey
900 strong, we build the banks we build the cut so high
To buy the bread we’ll rise my friend we’ll drink yon fenland dry.
For kicking off. And shouting out. And fighting for our rights.
For rioting in Bardney town - we all must pay the price.
You defend; the western banks boys - and we will take The Plough
And Benton’s ale; we’ll sup and slurp – we’ll curse, we’ll shout, we’ll row
Roll out the barrels into the street and barricade them high
We’re bankers and we’re navvies, boys we’ll drink The Angel dry.
For kicking off and shouting out and fighting for our rights
For rioting in Bardney town, we all must pay the price.
900 voices must be heard, 900 voices strong
When Gautby reads the riot act - prison won’t be long.
For kicking off and shouting out and fighting for our rights
For rioting in Bardney town, we all must pay the price.
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5. |
Heavy Thursday
04:18
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I forgot to close the tithe barn door and left footprints in the snow
It was a gift to those who follow me but have no place to go
I swear I saw the Hanging Wood ablaze one Thursday night
I’m telling tales of heavy things that happened long ago.
I caught a glimpse, well I thought I did, of waders in the mire
They spoke of things that made no sense, but I stayed for a while
A solemn oath, so dignified, they’re sharpening their knives
But strangers come and strangers go and that is all I know.
Shopping done I head for home along fenland’s edge I roam
Where ghosts of sailors’ manifest in alder woods below
I bring with me my evensong, my courage and my plough
And they’ll tell tales of heavy things around the three-grained oak.
Pendulums, sewing things, catalogues and hats
Draws that never open, diaries and maps
I can see the shape of things - yes, I can see it all
I lie awake and dream of what the future has in store.
But Monday’s child is full of face, but Thursday’s is so sad
I want to see the heavy things before my time has passed
I want to touch the heavy things, I want to touch them all
And I will dream of heavy things and heed the sandman’s call.
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6. |
The Star Stone
04:20
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A flight of fancy.
The final flurry of a distant sun
Grounded; beneath The Three Shire Oak – The Star Stone
A silver ghost from a far-off world
Now star-struck triumvirate in claggy soil.
A silver, benign phantom in search of Pallas
But you won’t find her here.
Not in this land of nod
So, retrieve your fiery trail
And return from whence you came.
A meteoric fall, a far-off thud
Retrieved from sodden fields and placed beneath a canopy of gold
A gift from Athene?
Burn bright my friend, burn bright.
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7. |
Drome (On Borrowed Time)
04:29
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On borrowed time we try to talk - on borrowed time we run
We’ll meet first light on thorny mound to celebrate the sun
We will solve the mystery of the stories that they told
And we will change our destiny as borrowed lives unfold.
As borrowed lives unfold, beneath the heathen drome
As borrowed lives unfold, beneath the heathen drome.
The stories that we left behind are callings
The stories left behind recall better times.
On borrowed time we try to talk - on borrowed time we run
We’ll meet first light on thorny mound and celebrate the sun.
The stories that they left behind are warnings to us all
The stories that they left behind won’t save us from the drome.
As borrowed lives unfold, beneath the heathen drome
As borrowed lives unfold, beneath the heathen drome.
The rumours that I hear about are daunting
The rumours that I hear are just false dawns.
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8. |
By Hook or by Crook
01:33
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Out in the wagon and out on the road.
I’m in a strange place that some would call home.
Chasing the tail of a dog with no lead.
I’m in the doldrums right up to my knees.
The soil it is shifting, it’s blowing away.
All that remains is just barren clay.
But I am a digger and a-digging I’ll go.
To carve the trenches so water will flow.
The blackthorn’s in flower and I am in bloom.
Casting a shadow beyond the gloom.
A ship on a wall at the minster in Stow, provides me with yearnings wherever I go.
Carved on the walls are the runes of the dead.
Written in fear and written in dread.
Fetch me my chisel, and wish me good luck.
And I will deliver by hook or by crook.
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9. |
Headless Things
04:21
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There is bad blood in the fields and we talk of headless things
Without legs they roll about careering into fences
They wrecked the barn and choked the plough - one even survived a stoning
Another with a face like thunder has even caused the well to cave in.
So wild they run these headless beasts that they will drive asunder
The cows won’t sleep and crops won’t yield until this foe is vanquished
But who am I to talk of things born out of superstition?
When dykes won’t flow and pigs might fly – begone this evil vixen.
There’s a needle in a haystack and bad blood in the fields
And a kind of mist that hugs the farm and phantoms do appear
“Yes, you, old devil! Yes, you my friend! It is you that made things bad”
Hung out like mackerel left to dry, they’ve even dammed our sluices.
When Becky worked the fields, weird things did occur
When Becky walked the land, strange things did appear
Begone ye devils, begone you fiends
There’s a devil in the plough.
Begone ye devils, begone you fiends
She will show you how
Pick up the axe and swing it high, for all we know; pigs might fly!
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10. |
Causeway
02:00
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A lazy river in winter flood, sluices through still water pools of wonder
And the fingers of a wooden platform, reach out into shallow flow
Trapped amongst the swaying reeds, a votive glint reveals itself - A gift
The pollen of a bygone time, captured in soil horizons of yore is cast downstream
Where eagle-eyed mud-larks, trample through the silted pastures of shallow men.
Amidst a stew of animal bone and pot shards, splinters of oak and willow.
Fragments from ancient boats become trapped in tertiary trenches, carved - in lazy river flow
For there were those that came to dredge and those that chose to dunk – and those that passed over the brushwood path and simply left no trace.
Along the northern bank, ‘marsh forts’ preside over ancient, alder wetlands and beyond...
The Car Dyke.
The short ferry disturbs the reeds and ancient, liminal structures creek beneath the peaty wash
And as I wander through a land of lithic scatter, I am lost in an upstream world of peak and flow – a wetland, awash with wonder.
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11. |
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Gyron, Fret, Orle, Flory, Pale, Pheon, Pall, Saltire, Torch, Vair, Scythe, Owl, Key, Bordure…
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12. |
Peter’s Big Day Out
03:44
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Out on the beach, amongst the bathers, loppers and the jetsam of the grimy north
Stands a lone watchman; - a stranger lost in time.
The sun; a reluctant visitor on this caustic strand, casts a transparent, seaside light
That hinders the artist’s perception of both time and distance
But our Bevin boy sees beyond this gaudy, post-war charade into another world…
Where colour, sound and the salty taste of home, combine to form world-weary gestures
in our theatre of dreams.
Close to the seafront - the railway station
It acts as a constant reminder of those who have departed -
Conscripted to another time. Another place
For beyond the pleasure dome there exists a parallel, a timeless less pallor world, where,
upon his canvas, the tensions of a concealed self, are rendered - in abstract form
But through the pallet of self-doubt, a stoic nostalgia for a time of yore is revealed.
Deep in the mine there is no colour.
A bleak, monochromatic world that filters the life out of our very existence
The wire grass of the midday dunes that cuts the bare legs of the young and the unwary is… no deterrent for those lost in a constricted, subterranean realm
For colour is a gift, and for Peter, and other sensitive souls, it is applied with caution and fervour.
Sitting amongst his gothic treasures an odd luminosity ignites his parlour and we are privy to a gentle moment of a time slowly passing.
The final brush-strokes of a singular existence.
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13. |
Many a Day
03:16
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Shelter inside.
Winds blow hot and cold; lights cross the Fen
Cars stream along.
In paths of shining steel - homeward bound
Many a day I have stood and watched from your side
Many a day I have stood and watched and listened
To all the grass as rivers flow, we shine and burn
And what’s the why’s and wherefores there’s never reason to recall
Before events. To make the plans I can’t relate
Heaven sent. To make the plans I can’t recall
I can’t recall.
Many a day I have stood and watched from your side
Many a day I have stood and watched and listened
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Duir! Nottingham, UK
DUIR! is a musical collective based in the East Midlands, UK that utilise spoken word, music and song to bring alive the
folk memories of Lincolnshire and its environs. Their inspiration stems from myths, legends, folk-tales and topographic features of this rural country.
DUIR! comprise of, Simon Brighton, Stephen Coalwood and Terry Welbourn.
DUIR! photo by Andy Weekes
... more
Duir! recommends:
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Stunning album recorded live that takes you to another place in the universe.
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Fierce and wild. German folk as authentic as you like!
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supported by 4 fans who also own “Drome”
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supported by 4 fans who also own “Drome”
Glorious noise with plenty of tasty classic psyche riffs. A real journey and especially satisfying to blast on a clear sunny day
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Enough as it Was
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Terrifically edgy guitar rock defines the latest from Amos the Kid, funneling country influence through a gritty indie aesthetic.
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