The Dump
A road draws through
Straggly lines of black ragged trees
In a landscape under bleak eastern light
Past The Village Chippy
Colliers Row and the Working Men’s Club
Towards a hill up north
Where in the bitter biting cold
Once great blocks were hewn
In a greater industrial age
The scattered remnants remain
As dust in the memory
Here the refuse is laid to rest
The fluff of our lives
Is crawled upon by machines
As mist curls into the wind like smoke
And men pluck rags from the branches of trees
Copyright © Pete Bemment | Year Posted 2011
|