The Only Known Tape of Nick Drake Speaking
You're lying on your back in the forest,
moist as deer giving birth, a blood-soaked
You breathe slower than clouds
that drive on the wrong side of the road.
Europe is a crystal ball
that trickles ice like promises, escaping from the palms of your hands.
There is tree-bark that dangles from your hair,
petals detach in your sudden shapes,
rising to be anointed, replacing you,
where you used to be. It's not home.
There is the smell of coffee,
small woodland creatures,
witches, schoolgirls in pigtails click like knitting needles
in foul tongues they learned
from blues men.
This is wrong - the star-bent trajectory -
the horoscopes -
the twisted sneer of brake-light on empty puddles.
Stand up, walk towards the nearest gate
like a fox hunting in the snow.
Thumb a lift towards the village,
keep your silence close to you,
the lady and the gent beside you
as they drive you away,
maybe they know your mother, your father,
maybe they saw your sister on TV saving Earth from aliens.
Silence hangs from your caftan -
It's how you'll bargain for your bread,
for your milk and honey,
should those wolves and dogs
and there's no moonlight
for the next few decades. You seen the splinters of your guitar
lying in the ditch as you approached the village.
No-one knows if you stopped and bandaged it,
stopped it from bleeding
Nick Drake -- Keith Morris