Living grows around us
Like a skin
To shut away the outer desolation
For if we clearly mark the
furthest deep
We should be dead
Long years before the grave

But turning around
Within the homely shell
Of worry, discontent and narrow joy
We grow and flourish
And rarely see the outside dark
That would confound our eyes

Some break the shell
I think that there are those who
Push their fingers through the
Brittle walls
And make a hole

And through this cruel slit
Stare out across the cinders
Of the world
With naked eyes

They look both out and in
Knowing themself
And to much else beside


'The shell' written by Nick Drake's mother (singer-songwriter 1948-1974)