Another
Heritage
Acres of
abandoned brick,
chiaroscuro
landscape lifted
by wren
song’s reedy ratcheting—
house panes
blaze in scattered pinks
rising to a
light like sprays of roses.
Name it as
the sun, then scented brightness
marks the
hour and the razed towns dance.
But sidings
widen into nothing, the station
sunk to
weeds, an animal of tar and rust
dazed by
random arsonists.
Boys scale
shale embankments,
then ride the
landslip down in slow grey waves,
blocking
towpaths and the public way
no Sunday
walkers visit.
The Council
dredges trolleys from the old canals.
The
strangeness of the place is broken.
A skimmed
stone settles with concentric ease,
my shadow
rippling on the water.
I sit in
needledrift, and watch
those circles
widen and diminish.
A silhouette
in hawk flight passes overhead,
high, so
high, this wilderness of winding banks
must appear
less urgent and remote,
with only the
bright sky’s lifting cold
to mark the
stooping ratios.
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