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Down in the Kent clay,
hands in the ground,
Digging out bricks with no wasted sound,
Cut from the earth,
fired and sent,
Milton Creek carried where the barges went.
What lies beneath, what lies beneath,
A hole in the ground with a story to keep,
From clay to waste,
forgotten a while, Sleeping in silence,
mile after mile. Seventy-three,
the last load came in,
Rubbish and rust where the water begins,
Gas in the ground,
and years of repair,
Someone had to believe there was something worth care.
What lies beneath, what lies beneath,
A hole in the ground with a story to keep,
Nothing stays broken, nothing stays still,
Even the scars of the clay pit and hill.
Wait... wait...
under the weight,
Something is turning, it's not
too late.