The Local Can Lady
Hunched and bagged
but light of foot,
soft-shoeing around bins,
seeking tin prizes that none of us want.
Deft hands,
lowered gaze,
An eagle eye for aluminium.
I see by her eyes
the world on her shoulders –
metallic and flattened.
She claims more quarry:
CRUNCH underfoot
tossed in the sack
then off to the melters.
The cycle starts again.
(from Fluorescent Voices, FSP 21)
Lichen at the Station
circles of crusty lichen
spatter the platform
flat and dull, these rusty coins
cling fast to life on asphalt
circles of pale grey lichen
withstand a thousand steps a day
kicked by sneakers
stuck by stilettos
quietly smothered by thick tan loafers
circles of shrivelled lichen
surrounded by tickets and spent chewing gum
hiding their life
they face the sun
draw air and rain
and grow on, in defiance
(from Rewired, FSP 32 and Circus Earth, New Poets 13)
Quarry Land, Leased ‘til 2020
In 1860
these green and teeming hills
lay dense with wood and herb,
with fur and scale and feather,
aswarm with a million insects,
timber stood proud and dammed the banks
of liquid crystal streams
In 1960
these brown and leaching hills
lay clothed with bones and weeds –
thistles from Britain, olives from Greece,
Cape daisies crawl from quarry slag-heaps,
birds cancelled flight and soupy creeks stank
under scums of blue-green algae.
Towards 2020…
these heat-hoven ancient hills
lie silent, resolute,
boxthorn skeletons creak in the breeze
but the natural course will not be undone –
here spins a leaf-green spider;
blooms a clump of candle flower;
winks a brown snake, at the new century’s sun.
(from Rewired, FSP 32 and Circus Earth, New Poets 13)