squat as urns
blend into autumn's ochre foliage,
I Pass Through
this cleft of steel and stone
running fast twixt fold and ridge
less the clank and scream of years gone by,
carries me (The Visitor)from red rose to white
Old Mills, Now Houses
the chill grey clouds settle high above the bricks.
Green Fields, supporting Grey Pylons, supporting Black Cables
Over canal and under bridge, we pass
(faces long seen but not remembered)
Out Of a Tunnel
We Stumble
Suddenly Amid these modern temples
of glass and grey
New Mills, Now Home
No comments:
Post a Comment