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There is an old tale
From Crookhaven
Of a quaint cottage on the bay
Where the waves coil and crash

Forty people call the town their life
Once there was forty-two
A husband and wife in the cottage
By the bay where the waves sway

There are three bars
Only one is open now
With plenty of fish to feast on
In the dim light of the ocean

See an old man, a regular
Neighbour to the cottage
Against the sea salt wall of the bar
Tell you a tale of the couple
The ones no one talks about
And everyone knows
In a town of forty
Silent thoughts speak loudly
Aiming all their words at sea

In the morning, they bought the cottage
Pink and rare, as forty became two more
Wary of outsiders, watched walking by
Hand in hand, arm round arm, and eye to eye
Looking only in the moment of each other
As that is where keeps the heart

They moved here, south
Far from everything that happened
All the disputes and misunderstandings
Where government became religion
Where true voices drowned

But here in the haven they found
Everything people forget
When they leave things somewhere
Wrapped up in a tidy bow
Circlet on a finger
Arms round a warm waist

It is awfully quiet at night
Save for the cottage
Where the candles flicker
The waves wrap round the pink place
And the fireplace keeps everything warm inside

Locals walk by the cottage
Every wet green and blue day
Look toward it, look away
And some heard say
The woman and man
Killed themselves

They were never seen
After the candlenight
And the cottage was left alone
The pink turned to stone
Forty-two now forty
For the eyes still look away
From that real place

Though if you were for to give
A sidelong look
At the stone cottage
By the waves
In the southwest at twilight
You might see
The outline of a woman and man
A deep green embrace
Held passionate together
By the fire blue
Before they look at you
And you run screaming
From terrific truth