packer’s field
A factory bequeathed it,
in trust to those who need it.
Go back further still, it’s just a hill,
unfenced like all the earth, until
the lords found wood and nails,
and crucified all prior claims.
So, centuries on,
that’s still what’s wrong.
It’s got so local’s just a badge you wear,
to show that you know how to care –
the kids are kicked around and deified,
it’s all for them, all justified.
As though when we’re done gone and grown,
don’t need to play or catch or throw –
praps if we did there’d be fewer kids
taking a hit cos they’re all alone.
The class today: spell ‘privilege’,
but only some can make it fit
and if you can’t you build a fence,
just like the lords oh way back when.
There are no heads buried in this clay sand,
but so many hearts burned and charred…
It wasn’t perfect here before,
but it seems they’re always wanting more:
set up a track for racing rats,
diss what you’ve got, you won’t want it back.
Maybe a Mayday Funday call,
a light before they close the door;
the surveys and the questionnaires –
imagine this: we could all be heirs.
Appeals to god, appeals to law,
all cos we can’t sit down and talk,
resolve to share a simple park,
the floodlight’s on and we’re in the dark.
There are no heads buried in this clay sand,
but so many hearts burned and charred…
Crows and magpies fightin’ in the graveyard –
I cross to see what the fuss is about,
hey there I see a prowling fat cat on the out.
Across the plum laden branches,
the plots so well-demanded:
the clatter and the scrape.
There are no heads buried with this claw hand,
but so many hearts burned and charred…
Back up there on Packer’s Field
the gulls are picking off the seed.
You can’t keep three birds in the hand,
so one thing’s clear: we’ve lost the land.
Words and music by Eirlys Rhiannon
As performed on Sleep by:
Vocals, Guitar, Bass – Eirlys Rhiannon
Fiddle, Backing Vocals – Rowan Armes
Frame Drum and Tambourine – Simon Leach
Click here to hear radio interview which includes a live acoustic version of Packer’s Field.
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