Golgotha

 

Under a northern sky,

the colour of slate,

the bones of our fathers

crunch underfoot

as we climb the hill

to reach the cross

of judgement

at the summit.

 

Know your place

child of mill worker,

miner, steel worker,

know your place -

for you are not

of our class,

you have no education

at our schools

and universities.

 

You will hear us,

underfoot,

scraping to the surface

in skeletal armies

that will not be

silenced any more.

Bursting from the pits

of Golgotha.

 

For when Salvation comes

it will do so in purging light

that flashes over the lands.

littered with the bones

of the working man,

piled high and crested

with the living, beating

heart of this new generation.

 

Your time is short

Your policies dead

Your ethics flawed.

You are obsolete.