Sunday, 5 June 2011


Unlike a phoenix
The ashes of our ancestry
Blow wildly
From the new crematorium chimneys
And are scattered carelessly
Across car parks

That dust
From those burned bones
Settles gently
On rows of new houses
And washes into the river
At the first rain.

This cut price suburbia
A river runs red.
Ragged rigging
Hangs like a shroud
On the ghosts of old boats
That drift silently downriver
And out to sea.

This uniformity,
The chaos of ages,
The gnarled roots
Of ancient forest
Cling desperately to the rubble and ruin
Of forgotten castles.
Broken stones, casting long shadows.

Refurb pubs and cashpoints
The old roads
Well trodden
Are paved away.
Confused signposts hang limp,
Pointing to places
That are no longer there.

Are we so hollow
That we would
Turn the stars ancient light
To poor advantage?
To mortgage history
In vain pursuit
Of new bricks for the ghost town?

The engine of change
Grinds and whines,
Hissing furiously.
Round again. Round again.
Endlessly reframed,
Resurrected, repainted,
Our refrain
Is only entropy.
Round again.