Whiteleaf Hill

from by Way Through



Whiteleaf Hill

Bike tyre tracks, kick over the barrow,
Inside there's a man, buried in a box,
Holding onto the ashes of a child.
The snow is trying to disguise practice trenches.
In Northern France there are men,
Buried without names, growing wild.

Let's step over the rail, as it gets steeper,
Down to the pale chalk cross cropped out of the hillside.
A type of inertia drags you on, until you find yourself running.
Outstretched, the dead ground,
Strikes you like the surface of the moon.

Hidden in plain sight, ignored but always there,
An unwatched destination for early drinking and adulthood rehearsed.
Hill figure abrades and washes away,
The viewpoint is a broken board
Scrawled over in broken verse.

"In loving memory of someone who used to come here"
"Don't you know you're" something.
"But that's the secret" something, something else,
"As I sit and look away it's not" something I can't make out.

"No I'm fighting with myself,
Trying not to notice the delicate flushed freckles
That dance across your smile".


from CLAPPER IS STILL, released November 11, 2013



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Way Through London, UK

WAY THROUGH are Claire Titley and Christopher Tipton, a pastoral punk duo originally from Shropshire, now residing in London. Informed by the field as much as the flyover, Way Through write songs which phase out with guitar, tapes, damaged drums and vocals. Using wrong-footed repetition, rapid interplay and free-looping happenstance the band create a ragged yet intuitive tapestry of sound. ... more

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