Landscape Grown Cold John Hartford

The trees standing naked
The ground underfoot
Is a dark cellar, cool
The battleship skies
So heavy my shoulders droop
It's a lean kind of day
That I sometimes pass through

The vines are like veins
On the old village wall
Where the grass turns to white
And way down the road
I see smoke from another world
In a room I'm not welcome
Removed from my life

I sit in the ditch
And I dig in the sand
With the heel of my sole
Sink down in my coat collar
Back to the wind that blows
Insane by myself
In a landscape grown cold

The painted tin sign
Flaps back in the wind
Where the green bottles lay
And a window of boards
Facing hollow upon the dust
Empty chairs sit in judgment
Accusing the day