The ferry lines are tied up tight
The harbor wind is cold tonight
My yellow coat is soaked and grey
I walk the salted road away
The white light room is humming low
Where the heavy waters flow
Spinning cotton spinning gold
A story that the rain has told
I push the heavy glass door wide
The humid air is warm inside
The scent of soap and steaming heat
A sanctuary for the street
The white light room is humming low
Where the heavy waters flow
Spinning cotton spinning gold
A story that the rain has told
Four machines are turning slow
In a steady rhythmic glow
I watch the linens swirl around
The only peace that I have found
The white light room is humming low
Where the heavy waters flow
Spinning cotton spinning gold
A story that the rain has told
I lean my head against the pane
I watch the falling sheets of rain
The tide is rising in the bay
While the city washes grey
One small spark in the midnight black
A beacon calling the sailor back
No one speaks but the motor hums
Until the morning sunlight comes
I fold my shirts in neat white lines
The clock upon the plaster pines
I lock the door and step outside
Back to where the salt tides glide
The white light room is humming low
Where the heavy waters flow
Spinning cotton spinning gold
A story that the rain has told
White light in the rain.
White light in the rain.
Just a white light room.
