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Personal Eclipse

from by The Weather Station

  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    ✴︎ ✴︎ For Canadian orders & deliveries only ✴︎ ✴︎

    Gatefold case in matte finish with full lyrics inside

    Includes unlimited streaming of Loyalty via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 2 days

      $15 CAD



I remember the dry grass of Nebraska, grey to distant blue.
I stopped on hills like slumping shoulders; car cooling, I took off my shoes.
I drove out west with my sister – she talks more than I do.
When she fell silent, still I’d miss her,
the sound of the wind coming through.

I remember the smoky cups of coffee at the continental divide,
mesas rose up there beside me. I felt like I’d arrived.
I walked on the streets of California in the wail of car alarms.
Men would shout out to me passing, a stranger with crossed arms.

I remember the subtlety of canyons, black by the roadside,
a cut in the rocks as I was passing, just a glimpse as you go by.
If there’s something you always are choosing – you may not recognise.
If there’s something you always are loosing – something disguised.

Lately I find myself lonely – I wouldn’t have called it that before.
I always took it as a comfort – what all the distance was for.
If you can’t leave clean as a statement – so true that you almost wince.
If you can’t leave, you get
yourself taken – like a personal eclipse.


from Loyalty, released May 12, 2015


tags: folk Toronto


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The Weather Station Toronto, Ontario

I write songs about things that exist.


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