Beyond our acid moors and smoke,
Where crags and limestone tooth the sky,
An empty hearted oak grew old
In downland forest, inward grown.
We stalk our moors and cough and choke,
Parade our bitterness and pride.
Puffed up with scars and open sores,
We gather all our people round.
We hear the oak may topple soon,
Its rotten roots are losing grip.
Its age once countless now counts down.
It stands alone, it stands forlorn.
Together we begin to sing
Our tuneless, half-forgotten hymn.