| Beaconsfield to Headington went by
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| The ring-road to the south
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| My heart too big to fit inside my mouth
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| And up there on the hill
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| The woods and houses still
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| I took the plastic urn
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| How heavily we burn
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| I stood there by the bench
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| Beneath an arch of trees
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| The flicker of his voice inside the breeze
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| And unscrewing the lid
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| The weirdest thing I did
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| And tumbling through my hands
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| The ash fell on the land
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| And I made a trail through the trees
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| Dust and pieces at my feet
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| And down in Matthew Arnold’s Field
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| With sun by cloud concealed
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| A horse its head held high against the sky
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| The bridleway led back up to the gate
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| A car parked by a tree
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| Inside a couple with sandwiches and tea
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| They were gazing at the field
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| Its silence all revealed
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| As it was once to him back then
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| And was to me that day again
|
| And I see that trail through the trees
|
| Dust and pieces at my feet
|
| And down in Matthew Arnold’s Field
|
| With sun by cloud concealed
|
| A horse its head held high against the sky
|
| On the day I said goodbye
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| As I tried to say goodbye |