the third tips
ochre red and clinker roaded
around from the spelter works
to the pluck lake
notorious for its bottomless depth
a pit shaft underneath awe said
disproved by the vicar with his plum-bob
boated against a tide of disapprobation
reeds one end and a ship’s boiler the other
to fish off for roach with bread dough
under a floated wish
the upper bank branch line banked
to the west ~ to the east tunnels two
to walk a stamped echo through while
an express train thundered overhead
sandy embankments
where grass snakes slumbered
the ruined cooling tower
where the frogs bathed
many the dusk of expectation ended
with the tiddlers thrown back
and the monster fish away on holiday
how long has it sat there
between the slag ridges and signals
gathering beady eyes to the slag
in search of copper splashings
from time’s furnace
worth a bob or two when hessian sacked
and delivered to the scrap man
with no questions asked
rich pickings on a summer evening
within easy footfall of the garden gate
and the rare spilling of the northern lights
to complete this fairytale
No comments:
Post a Comment