White chalk hills are all Ive known.
White chalk hills will rot my bones.
White chalk sticking to my shoes.
White chalk playing as a child with you.
White chalk south against time.
White chalk cutting down the sea at Lyme.
I walk the valleys by the Cerne,
on a path cut fifteen hundred years ago,
and I know, these chalk hills will rot my bones.
Dorsets cliffs meet at the sea,
where I walked, our unborn child in me.
White chalk, gorse-scattered land,
scratched my palms, theres blood on my hands.