Where winds from pterodactyl wings prevail.
Cast open wasteland shadows,
In which through perished grass,
Thrusts this 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 keen eyed,
From crooked trees,
In Lowry skies, as
Strangle weeds grow round necks
Of ‘quipment collaps’d, done for graft.
We try to revive and oil,
But it runs deep this decay,
It runs deep this past.
The rusted beak juts death
Of industry gears, buried heavy clay,
Looms large size, sleepers rot,
Ropes untwist, steeples plummet,
Chains still bind though,
Just so you know, just a reminder.
None the new growth dares to poke
From beyond the poisoned ground.
Harrows up, points blade bone.
Marrows ate by dogs dawned
Wi’ gallows humour,
Frozen for those of skill and brawn.
Paint this scene;
There’s the works’ washed out,
Black and blue,
In devastated grey valleys between,
Where carbon red trickles
Stream-like ‘tween haunted rock.
There’s death wash,
In the gobs of the forgotten,
Because the witch you thought was dead,
S’ smile now, through blood drained lips.
Sit here this desolate bench.
Pull out your bait, pull out your corks,
Y’ know, for y’ nose
For this stench.
Look beneath how we’re judged.
Through the carved up way back home
While down Whitehall way they can’t see that
All of our dandelion’s heads are missing.
Hide your children, hide the old,
Under the yet to be climbed stairs.
And look lively now, the time nears.
The knock’ll come eventually,
For the inherently branded,
Tarred the same, ignored.
Ignored, though known within
Circles uniquely exquisite.
But for now, lights out,
For here comes
© Mark Coverdale