I think we were his ghosts,
Pulling up at the pub he never opened,
While the car radio played the news.

Smoke.

It was just a pit stop along the highway -
a small sign reading 'Blackbird Inn'.
He met us out in the carpark
And he told us to keep driving.

Smoke.

Someone laughs far away.
The sound stretches out in front of them,
Hitting each rock face in this basin
Until it finds me,
And fills me up.

Smoke.

Somewhere across the border,
With no phone reception.