Past the broken down tractors
Past the randomly discarded farm implements
Over the heather moor and the peat bog
Past the rebuilt black houses
Past the new self-build houses
With abandoned caravans
The islanders you would think
Are not fond on aesthetic beauty.
Perhaps this is what a hard life brings
Years of cutting peat or catching fish
Years of toil before this current time
Of holiday housing the leisured classes
Perhaps these years of hardship
Coupled with the regular visits
Of mist and rain combine
To build an island consciousness
Where survival and shelter comes first
A, bloody well, long way first
This is not a place for you seekers
Of the peak
Of the self realisation pyramid
Of the self realisation pyramid
