I wonder what these places would have looked like before the committee got to them, more trees, and weeds on ledges, less Tarmac, and garages.
The visitor board illustrates what was here, look for the stumps left, two flinty ankles of a giant cut down, a two story toilet block roofless, the soul survivor, cattle shed, the finest remaining medieval toilet block in England, it states,
Where two monks were beaten till dead after taking a local girl one afternoon for a walk in Tyne woods, over the vally and there, making her ugly,
And the low stones of the origanal church where a monk stole silver and died of disentry, and the outline of its apse, where a monk spat on bones.
Forget me knots grow now around the base, imitating their fathers, a few daisies do no good and the mark of the mower, cheap council cut and a budlier, as always up early rooted in rock, as well in the a grade listed ruins as the concretes curb behind the warehouse at work, leaving for winter, and returning,
I look to the few remaining faced stones, the ones that were exposed to the insense and lines of Latin, observent stones, monk feet moving in their lullabies lull, on a dark candling December between councils, plague between no such things, keeping the initials of ghost, tough to the last few stones.
More light now, sussex rain on nylons, the rain of teens and raised voices,
Rough song stoney song, that of hounds heads built into walls, each overtakes the other, one verse a starving gate, a chores from bramble and often seen first to rise weed, thorns that could not intake sleep, pushing thorough frost and clear branches, incarnations of winter, captive saps up in the end of summer. When the earth had lists, served a sentence, returned to the freedom of desolate places,
The brambles hide calling creatures, behind the steel fencing, that protect the public ruins, the birds call like the death end men did, in complex harmonies, hard to up root, up at dawn, equal clothed, each with a habit and book, straight silent, tall, unpopular, flowered demolition, infront the warm sun, the start of a mothers lie,
Why do me get to choose what is chi or other wise. Gifts from the unloved, the youth steel, drunk breath, gallons of misty breath. Bulls breath, waiting for trains on exposed platforms, another stranger and another, on looking dark stones of ghost spires, of naked men, climbing demolished stairwells, broken bells, electric bells and lights announcing the coming light around the curve of the line, that will take me home to humiliation in the morning.
Dreams are mothers with sick children amid Ruins of a disappointing deposed, dismantled, quarried, killed, risk litany, resilient faith. A faith that will only happen to me.