Reclamation

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world"
W B Yeats, The Second Coming
http://www.well.com/user/eob/poetry/The_Second_Coming.html


On the edges of the town,
In gaps left by fallen factories,
The waters are gathering.
The river is rising
On the edges of the town.

In the secret marshes, by the scrapyards,
The washed-out oil forms broken beaches.
The water-birds, lured from safer seas,
Dip cautious toes into the grime,
In the secret marshes, by the scrapyards.

Silent streams run underground,
Their courses traced by Corporation plates,
Their outlets locked by rusting chains.

By the roadside, in the browning grass,
Rubbish flies in wind-blown orbits,
Cans half-split with biting scars.
The fences are falling from their posts,
By the roadside, in the browning grass.

Railways, their tracks now gone, lead up blind sidings,
To shells of silent factories,
The skeletons of swift purpose, standing still,
Until they fall.

In the churches, in the squares,
The light creeps reverentially past the shutters,
And shuffles in the dust upon the floor.
The pews are gone, the walls with gaping sores,
Where pipes and wires were ripped away,
In the churches, in the squares.

On the edges of the town,
The night is closing in,
Sneaking past the broken street-lights,
Shutting off the final drips of power.
The scavengers walk boldly, now,
On the edges of the town.


Martin Locock, 1984