paroles de chanson Repetition (feat. James Yorkston) - Max Cooper

This where I begin
Our garden is overflowing, but on the road, there is no sign of life,
But no mind as within a minute our four feet are upon the moss of
The curved, basin rocks, and there is too much life to take in, here.
We climb past the petrified tree, sat like a giant′s badly thrown pot,
Discarded, but hanging on lopsided,
Climbed upon by generations and generations but hardly an obstacle
For you at all, now. We creep down the slide of the ashen grey glass,
Careful, careful,
As the water rushes to meet our further neighbours -
The secret beach is exposed
And this is where we shall go, twice a day,
Passing the igneous and the sandstone,
The rock pools and the idiot yellow forests,
Slowly drying in the sun but sleekit still.
You can hold my hand yet run off to the Heights, I call out warnings,
Terrified of the ending of my world in a few moments time,
Should you slip,
Or focus on a maroon red shell-less snail just a little too closely
And here the sand is a renewed Virgin here my feet slowly sink,
The water creeping to my toes reminding me of my own childhood,
The grit under the nail, a blink and I am there, charcoal in my hand,
Decorating the rocks with evil lunged faces,
The skull and the cross bone and then a Yelp
And I'm back to you and your calls for attention.
I watch the waves the gulls the guillemots and you. I watch you.
I breathe the air and momentarily confused a trickle of water with a
Fat broken heel. I lift and I pop seaweed for a scent achievable
Nowhere else but my memory and soon my son you will be me and I will
Be gone and when I die,
Lay my body down, far, far along this furthest strand...
We cannot control the longlines, at best
I can skim a stone 17 steps, with luck
But after that,
I have no control of the trajectory,
The weight, the ripple of the water
So, it is important we throw with grace and
Precision, the collapse of the flight, the illusion...
And I teach the curl
Explain my understanding of the cup of the base of the stone
A traditional black weight slate coin, perhaps not the best
For me
Every few moments we will hurl a brick, and laugh
For it always works to hurl a brick, for us
I tire, you skip, I nudge a discarded crab and with a shard I
Remember a friend, battered by life′s low easy and high tide,
In his own life changing harbour wave, his own tiny tsunami
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And what a life to live, for this fellow
What a time to realise that this surge will be the last
That he cannot survive this swell
A crash and I panic and I struggle to breathe?
Perhaps.
He could not find his neuk, in which to shelter.
"Now, just give me a minute"
Like warmth, you return, holding a soap shaped stone
Curved and worn and perfect and
"Look, I can use it to draw with"