The Mound

It started way back when I was a child

One cold November night in sixty-four

Old furniture and windfall from the trees

Piled high into a mound of combustibles

Each year new kindling was added to ashes

That had smudged the verdant back garden lawn

Layer upon layer added to the blackened hill

That was gradually growing towards the sky

One year I lo...

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Wastelands

Canal side moorings and old mills

Stretch their northern roots into the collapsed rubble

Of Industrialised wreckage

Overgrown with harsh grass and weeds

An old man sits at the side of the grey water

And dips a hopeful line into its murky depths

There are parts of old bikes and shopping trolleys

Poking from the surface like Leviathan bones

Paths ...

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