Why There Are Multiple Versions
Sometimes a song doesn’t arrive once.
It arrives in layers.
I write the lyric.
I feel the shape of it.
Then the music comes — and it comes differently each time.
One version might lean into the stillness.
Another might lift into hope.
Another might break your heart in a place you didn’t expect.
And the strange thing is — they’re all right.
Music is not mathematics.
It’s interpretation.
It’s breath.
It’s mood.
It’s the same story told through different skies.
So instead of choosing one…
I’m sharing them all.
Because each version holds a different truth.
And you might hear something in one that I missed in another.
You choose.
Or don’t.
Let them speak.
Lyrics Below
Blossom in hedgerow light.
Daffodils —
burning bright
against the last of winter.
Bluebells breathe
through woodland air,
as if the earth remembers
how to care.
Morning.
Mist lifting
off the hill.
Lambs unsteady —
learning still
that standing
is the first small victory.
Green returns
field by field.
Frost loosens.
Darkness yields.
Showers fall —
and then
rainbows bend
over puddles holding sky.
Blackbird sings
from the wire.
Skylark lifts
higher —
and something in the chest
lifts too.
Swallows carve
coastal blue.
Hands press seed
into soil.
Quiet work.
Holy toil.
Sun through branch
and beam —
England waking
from a dream.
And slowly,
let it rise.
Not with thunder —
but with widening skies.
Through the roots.
Through the rain.
Through the long remembered pain.
Colour moving
lane to lane.
No more waiting
for the grey to break.
We were still.
Now we wake.
Let it rise —
steady, strong.
Not just season.
A returning.
A belonging.
A song.
Spring.
Michael Forty