Too Good to Burn
Below the moon at Uffington
between the thighs of chalkhill down,
we sit beneath the White Horse stars,
watch flames and sing our song.
Stars and embers dance their crown
as woodsmoke turns the hours to dust,
and as we do these things we must
believe the night is ours.
Above the nervous lanterns rise
like strange birds from another time,
we wait below this all tonight,
we contemplate the flow.
And stars and embers dance their crown
as woodsmoke turns the hours to dust,
and as we do these things we must,
we know the night is ours.
Below the moon at Uffington
like strange birds from another time,
we contemplate the White Horse night
and all the ways that she may turn.
Oh stars and embers lay your crown,
as woodsmoke turns, the hours must -
we know a simple truth to trust,
this night indeed is ours to own.
Now sit, and sing with us.