It's the kind of grey November day that washes away reflections

In the eys of hotel porters

And the latticed wooden benches by the sea contain no traveller

Or Irish lady authors

And the girl in the raincoat walks the lanes of Brighton

With her collar turned against the wind

And hovers in the doorways of second-hand bookshops

Among the dust and fading print

And you're not the one she's thinking of

And you're not the one she really wants

Just a point along the line she's leaving from



She goes into a cafe, orders tea, looks at the menu

But there's nothing really on it

And the place is as deserted as a plaza in a heat-wave

And the cloth has jam upon it

But the girl in the raincoat doesn't stop to count the tea-leaves

Or turn to see the mists around the sun

For the winter's unfolding around her

And it's time for moving on

And you're not the one she's thinking of

And you're not the one she really wants

Just a station on the line she's leaving from



And so you sit there in the middle of the carpet

With her suitcases around you

And it comes to you she journeyed to the center of your life

But she never really found you

Just another girl in a raincoat

Who shared the passing of the days

And you're glad of the warmth that she gave you

And you hardly need to say

That she's not the one you're thinking of

No she's not the one you really want

Just a point along the line you're leaving from

-------------------------------------------------------