Trod
Graffiti plastered pipelines
beneath the bridge
Black stains of campfires
on hard packed slag
The slow brown beck
beside the cyanide stack
Snowdrops between wet trunks-
carol singing
In the river wind, I am tasting
time’s passing,
The salty tang of spiked railings
and barbed wire
Moss devoured moorings -
the tugs no longer run
The furnaces and iron pigs
are buried beneath
The Pudding Hills – I belong
between the banks.
The marsh pools are frozen
portraits by Jack Frost
And dead trees of rust point
to wherever he’s fled.
No sign of seals by the barrage,
the weight of closure
Floats away like Peg’s Suds
towards Teesmouth,
We’ve met to walk the limbo days
between the years
To tread the circuit and see
that we are stray flames
Flitting across hoar frost
where the incinerator
once stood full of oiled growls,
the terrible bellows
The funereal smoke-ladder
of all abandoned things.
