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It's the kind of grey |
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November day that washes away reflections |
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In the eyes of hotel porters |
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And the latticed wooden benches by the sea contain no travellers |
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Or Irish lady authors |
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And the girl in the raincoat walks the lanes of |
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Brighton With her collar turned against the wind |
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And hovers in the doorways of second-hand bookshops |
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Among the dust and fading print |
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And you're not the one she's thinking of |
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And you're not the one she really wants |
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Just a point along the line she's leaving from |
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She goes into a cafe, orders tea, looks at the menu |
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But there's nothing really on it |
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And the place is as deserted as a plaza in a heat-wave |
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And the cloth has jam upon it |
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But the girl in the raincoat doesn't stop to count the tea-leaves |
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Or turn to see the mists around the sun |
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For the winter's unfolding around her |
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And it's time for moving on |
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And you're not the one she's thinking of |
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And you're not the one she really wants |
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Just a station on the line she's leaving from |
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And so you sit there in the middle of the carpet |
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With her suitcases around you |
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And it comes to you she journeyed to the center of your life |
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But she never really found you |
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Just another girl in a raincoat |
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Who shared the passing of the days |
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And you're glad of the warmth that she gave you |
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And you hardly need to say |
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That she's not the one you're thinking of |
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No she's not the one you really want |
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Just a point along the line you're leaving from |
