Tuesday, 9 April 2019

The Visit

Carnations fail,
Where winds from
Pterodactyl wings

Cast open
Wasteland shadows,
In which through
Perished grass,
Thrusts this’ll
Beak of iron.

The cut up,
Is from seventy two below
To eighty four inch,
Which sticks out a foot,
Over which
We still trip.

Beady vultures
From crooked trees,
In petrified woods,
In Lowry skies
Watch strangle weeds
Round necks
Of equipment collapsed.
We try to revive and oil
This futility
Done for graft,
But it runs deep
This decay
It runs deep
This past.

It juts the death
Of industry gears
Buried heavy clay.
Looms large size.
Sleepers rot,
Ropes untwist,
Steeples plummet,
Stories mist,
Chains still bind though,
Just so you know,
Just a reminder.

Paint this scene
With tar brush;
There’s the
Works’ washed out,
Black and blue
In valleys grey,
Where carbon red
Streams ‘tween
Haunted rock and
Riven bed.

There’s death wash,
In the gobs
Of the forgotten,
The witch,
You thought was dead,

So force a whistle
Through blood drained lips.
Sit this desolate bench with
Plaque engraved
In memory.
Rest your broken backs.
Pull out your bait,
Pull out your corks,
For the end
For the final shift.

Look below,
Look beneath
How we’re judged,
Through the carved up
Way back home
We trudge,
While atop that
Parliament hill
They can’t see,
But they still sit,
Still judge.

Hide your children,
Hide your old,
Your pregnant,
Your ill from
Grave to cradle,
Under the
Yet to be climbed
And beware.

The time looms.
Like death,
The knock’ll come eventually,
For the inherently branded,
Tarred the same,
Carpet brushed
And long grass kicked,
Quietly fighting
Biting winds
And loaded fists
Just to exist.
No muscle move.
As colour drains
From frail faces,
Feeble mouths ask
If time is up.
Is it?
Once again,
Hush now,
It’s lights out,
For here
The visit.

No comments:

Post a Comment