RIP

Take the stairway

Three floors below zero

Four metres of concrete

Walk along the corridor

Five doubts of past depressions

Six days of blackened sun

Turn, in step

Seven twisted corrugations

Eight minds, stolen or shattered

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Ripples

Three floors below zero, four metres of reinforced concrete

Carried in cages over cavernous excavations

Or in tunnels, pure of artificial light

Boulders blasted with dynamite explosives

Underworlds that underscore, they symbolise symbolic art

Doubt

Descent

Disappearance

Dust

Disfigured man

Duress

Distrust

Water, darkened by the slowly blackened sun

On the sands twisted corrugations minds are shattered or stolen

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Lost at sea

Mischievous to leave so much to the imagination

The sun on the fenlands was always joyous

And then

Wars happen everywhere don’t they?

People lose their minds or have their minds

Taken away

Manipulated by overt forces that might…

No I don’t expect so

Good intentions seem so far away now

Over the grey horizon from where you

Half returned

From where innocent men don’t return at all

Unless by some stroke of luck

Their naivety helps them choose to avoid engagement

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Strangers

Don’t ask me next time, ok? Find someone else to do your…

Hey! Are you listening? How can you laugh at such a time

Always conniving those two

You wouldn’t wonder what they’ve…

And to their own, if I’m not mistaken

You owe me remember

Always available you said, now listen to you

They let the others carry their burden

Hunched shoulders; hunchback I shouldn’t wonder

It’s worry that does it, better not to know

You are right

It is better not ever to know

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Return

I took the quiet road, out over the hayrack, past the derelict cottages along Suburbia way. The library was empty, the books all turned to dust. Only the little ones understood, understood enough, still to play.

The bells are silent

Still; still hanging but silent

Their ropes are worn thin with worry

Those last few years were ever busy

Old stones grow older with the rain

Thank heavens for the seasons

The waters edge is endless

Without salt or sand to hold back the forces of wind and sun

Without salt or sand to hold up the heavier weights of life

With nowhere to fly to, nor new life to deliver, our job here is done. Still the cases might as well be unloaded; the quiet road is subsided, even the cart tracks have fallen. We ought though to stay around. No one must ever know.

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