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 crisscross the grasslands like dusty veins

Leading to dead end bushes that block the way

Manmade rubbish thrown hurriedly on passing

Grip onto the spiny branches like cancer

 

In the Wastelands of an industrial town

There is slow decay and the unpleasantness of rotting

In the fabric of unused and unloved land

That has existed but not lived for centuries

 

A bulldozer chews

A builder resurrects brick

A town is reborn