On The Slag Heap

Quenching the eternal flame,

the furnaces won’t burn again,

the northern dragons will lay still -

the Government has had its fill.

At its heart a molten core

that will implode and beat no more.

The mill will close, the light will die

and in the dark the ghosts will cry.

The workers will go home to bed

not knowing if their family’s fed

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

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