Outside a tearoom on the West Coast, just beyond the tidal range
Closes the pages round a bookmark, takes the glasses from her eyes
A distraction, as a synapse triggers some past recollection
In every classroom and every lecture, there's a dozen vacant eyes
From the dual carriageways to the Chekhov plays there's wandering minds
Recollections of the boys they kissed and the girls they let slip
At every bus stop in the county and the station ticket halls
Saturday markets in the villages and the trailers for the films
Everyone's cursed by reflections
Replaying the same old scenes
And too wrapped up in that to notice what's happening
Back at the teashop, revelations, like an old detective film
Just like a signpost or a guidebook if the lightning strikes again
Recollections are a treasure trove for a new direction
Out in the high street, from the concrete blocks to the rivers in the park
Out in the discos and the pop shows and the students with guitars
I'd never really know what to say to you
If not for the hours spent dissecting what I should have once said to someone else