Born at the window to the North Sea
Rain on the mudflats, they're the bed on which I sleep
I've been away for months now, or is it years?; I don't know
The radio waves are crashing out, arcing down into the undertow
I found a door in the depths of my boat
Its big brass handle was all tarnished and old
I couldn't open it but it felt so smooth and cold
Like the treasures from the palace of the king of the North Sea Holes
Why did you decide to come with me, oh Marjorie?
I guess you couldn't live without the mystery of the sea
Your oiled canvas smocks are so becoming of your body
But you flicker like a candle and it disarms me
I caught a fish with the voice of a man
It spoke in languages that I couldn't understand
Seven leather bound books full of stories from the land
A cracked glass compass in the palm of a broken hand
Fraserburgh seems so far away, my dear, from this perfect coast we've found
Christmas at Stavanger harbour, New Year's Eve at the oyster mound
No one in this world can harm us, if we never touch the ground
But now... you fade away for days, and you never make a sound