Morning light on Essex ground, Boots in dew, no soul around, Fields lay wide, the sky hangs low, Where old-time stories sleep below. They came from far with packs and maps, Dust on their coats, mud on their caps, Laughing loud in foreign rain, Chasing ghosts across the plain. Metal sings when the coil swings low, Soft little hum from long ago, Roman roads and Saxon bone, Kings once walked where we now roam. Oh the fields around Colchester call, Through hedgerow, stone, and broken wall, Not for gold nor crown nor throne, But for the past we bring back home. With brothers’ hands and sisters near, Shared the ground and shared the years, We dig for time, not just for gain, And leave with stories, not just remains. Cold tea mugs and weathered skin, Laugh lines deep from years of wind, Pub doors warm at fall of night, Songs and smoke in amber light. Ancient coins and broken rings, Buttons lost to old-world kings, Some days silver, some days stone, Some days gold in English loam. The land remembers every man, Every step, every grain of sand, We’re just echoes passing through, Listening close to what it knew. [Final Chorus] Oh the fields around Colchester sing, Of plough and sword and buried kings, We walk as friends where armies trod, On quiet paths once blessed by God. No banners raised, no flags unfurled, Just honest souls in an ancient world, We came for treasure, soil, and stone, But found a family more than gold. So if you walk where magpies cry, And hear old bells in open sky, Remember those who walked this way, And the friends who found their past one day.
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