Crossing: the act or process of traveling across.
Coming down on the Pendeford Bridge, Pond Bay,
the first building of the day
the first factory through the wire,
it’s always been that way
History looks different these days.
Imperial pride, passenger ride
a hundred million bricks still hold back the sky
Oxley and Aldersley, Claregate and Compton
no connection any more
know the reason why.
Warehouse rumbles, industrial thunder
we’re making the weather these days
up here for the thinking, down there for the dancing
that’s what the graffiti says.
Rolling mill, fabrication
drawing thread, spinning twine
production line, be mine.
The thunder is fading, bu the storm keeps rising,
we're still pumping, no compromising.
We don't know what the future will be
a degree warmer, a meter of sea?
This is life, what do we know?
Just another millionaire,
stock market fool,
gold rush cool,
a moth to the flame.
his mothers son,
no one is to blame.
Be the healer, wheeler dealer.
Material wealth brings some comfort,
the pleasure principle brings its gains,
relief from our pains.
We are chemical beings,
with electrical brains.
Where do we go when we close our eyes,
trying to aspire to brighter skies,
what have we got, other than how we feel,
self harm escape is the saddest deal.
Prayer for the Wolves: eight thirty on a Blakenhall morning
I see a woman hold a polished copper bowl above her head, pour a milky libation, pause, and pray to the sun rising over the Niphon building across Lower Villiers street.
Sometimes the distance between a prayer and a love song is so small, that’s a place I’d love to live.
Say a prayer for the ones with the power
who give birth and devour.
A prayer for the wolves
and the ones they pull down,
victims of the cutting teeth,
who labour with passion and vision and belief.
I am not naive, will not be overwhelmed, though I grieve.
I see solutions,
sometimes have my doubt,
with all my soul I want to shout,
I’m cross, have crossed, been crossed,
will not be crossed out.