You walk the boards of the old gray pier
The smell of brine is heavy and near
Your fingers twitch with a clockmaker's art
A rusted hinge is where you must start
Salty air and the brass gear turns
Cold white foam where the shoreline burns
Wind in the rigging a steady beat
Sanding the wood beneath your feet
You see the light in the tower high
A steady blink in a charcoal sky
The copper coils in your pocket glow
Watching the heavy tide ebb and flow
Salty air and the brass gear turns
Cold white foam where the shoreline burns
Wind in the rigging a steady beat
Sanding the wood beneath your feet
The oil is thick on your calloused thumb
The harbor bells beat a rhythmic drum
You wind the spring of a pocket watch
Counting the seconds by a tiny notch
Salty air and the brass gear turns
Cold white foam where the shoreline burns
Wind in the rigging a steady beat
Sanding the wood beneath your feet
The winter gale pulls the anchor chain
A sudden wash of the freezing rain
You hold the glass to the golden light
Keeping the harbor safe through the night
Salty air and the brass gear turns
Cold white foam where the shoreline burns
Wind in the rigging a steady beat
Sanding the wood beneath your feet
Just a gear and a grain of sand.
The tide comes in to take your hand.
