Here on this dreamy hillside amongst the ferns I lie
And watch their gentle tracery against the azure sky.
The busy hum of insects, the murmuring of streams,
The distant drone of motor cars has lulled me into dreams.

I dream of lovely Keswick, which nestles far below
On Derwentwater's quiet shore where tourists come and go.
Her grey streets ring with laughter; bright colours everywhere;
They wander idly to the lake and throng the market square.

But from the azure heavens slashes a streak of fear.
The SCREAM of a low flying jet assaults my sleeping ear.
It turns my dream to nightmare, shatters my tranquil mood,
As the grey streets of Keswick run crimson with fire and blood.

How fast the fury passes, once more the insects hum,
But visions of tranquillity point blank refuse to come;
Instead the nightmare haunts me, how on this hill I stood
And watched while lovely Keswick died in fear and fire and blood.