The Hermit - Richard Dawson: Song Lyrics, Music Videos & Concerts

The Hermit

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The Hermit was released on November 18, 2022 by Weird World as a part of the album The Ruby Cord

Song Details

AlbumThe Ruby Cord

Release DateNovember 18, 2022

LabelWeird World

LanguageEnglish

Melodicness

Acousticness

Valence

Danceability

Energy

BPM

OVERVIEW

LYRICS

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS

Richard Dawson

Performer

Rhodri Davies

Choir

COMPOSITION & LYRICS

Richard Dawson

Composer, Lyrics, Arranger

PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING

Richard Dawson

Producer

Sam Grant

Producer, Mixing Engineer

Lyrics

I'm awake but I can't yet see;

An eager chiffchaff is heralding me.

The image starts to form of a four-poster bed

sprung in the clarts of a riverbend.

And the Claviger knows

when the beaded shoots go

through the arid interstix of my toes

among the mazed roots of Rowan as

I pass my waste.

Vaporous shafts of a burgeoning sun

skewer the forest-floor onto a world fresh begun

all in the Name of the Harvest,

i.e. our ever-onrushing plasma.

Shadows of leaves

mottled by the cleaves

of caterpillar's ardent mandibles

form a basketweave of glowing mud,

bluebells in bud.

Linen smock

and scarlet-embroidered mantua

descend from alderbranches shined with dew to settle

onto my body.

A little emerald brooch

unclasps itself from moss

to alight upon my breast.

I step into a slipperpair -

exquisite replicas of those worn by

Ada, the Enchantress of Numbers.

Two swallowed cups

of pureed bilberries,

which grow in abundance

by the cornmill ruins:

One hungers for nothing.

Now let's follow

these tracks of a Fallow Deer -

sentences of clay leading away from here.

Out of the yawning dene

and over a gorsey brow vanishes

her black horseshoe rump and tattered tail

into a gossamer vale.

At the heather-tousled crest of

Yeavering Bell we may enter a

stone beacon-tower

from which the eye may

hold a whole sweep of the kingdom:

Hazy marshes, crow-pocked copses,

patchwork meadows labyrinthed with hedgerows

gently declining to a fluff of woodsmoke

clung to the fringe of the North Sea;

The village of Bebba

where once I lived, a

fisher, before I was forced to flee.

*

One fair morn, wrapped in a shawl of salt-mist

I gathered in my pots of White-Clawed Crayfish

and from those sucking sands

did I make my way

dripping to the kitchendoor of the Crossed Keys.

Young Charley Wheatstone, the innkeeper's lad,

with the same star-shaped birthmark as his dad

set square on his chin,

bid me a shy 'hail fellow'

and emptied the squeaking traps

into a pewter trough.

The forlorn brewer, lacking ample coin,

apologised with a token of grubs on a stick

and suggested payment take the form

of an upgrade to my visual and ontoceptual cortexes.

Back in the throes of my then-home -

a blubberlit chamber

off the cliff-crazing tunnels beneath the fort -

I donned Diogenes' Robes, imbibed the Code

and disappeared into a dream of Kittiwakes,

a hundred billion voices echoing around a

dark amphitheatre,

still ringing in my ears

as I went creel in hand

through the Bog of Names.

Upon entering a blossom grove

I went into total spasm as a

storm of info broke abruptly across my retinas.

I came around to an enhanced perception

of every life-form within a ten-yard radius.

Each throbbed with its own aurora.

Utterly awed,

I'd inadvertently drawn to my mind's-eye

a lone Ashy Miner Bee, as if to a plate

under a microscope.

I sobbed as I zoomed among

individual hairs on its forelegs and face

and stared for a long time into the ommatidia.

Performing a scan

on a cache of False Death Caps

I found I could trace their history

all the way back to manufacture.

Slippery Jack, Amethyst Deceiver,

Fairy Rings, Penny Buns, Hen Of The Wood…

I was amazed

scrolling not only the funguses yesterdays

but also their myriad yet-bloomed tomorrows.

With a burden of redcurrants

and wild garlic at my elbow I

wearily made my

way along Crackpool Burn,

joining the coast road at Glororum.

Up ahead I could see what

looked to be a robot knelt in the lane,

revealed at a higher magnification

as a gilt-clad knight of Old

submerged at the waist in

unyielding concrete,

flailing his arms to a windmill of gold.

Lifting up the poor soul's visor

my gaze met with a mask of

vein-popping fury -

or was it abject fear? -

gasping the Chivalric oath.

Then it was over -

he split asunder,

gleaming armour dissolving to unveil

the apprentice of Godwin the Whitesmith, a merest sliver of a man.

Stooped to retrieve the platinum from his mouth I

heard halted hooves and the cry "MURDERER!"

*

Tiny cobles out at sea,

a black wall of cloud in the east

and a taper of rainbow

faintly aglow

amidst their wakes.

Written by: Richard Dawson

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