Quarry Town

Spiralling flocks of migrating birds rise high

Soaring above the timeless beauty of the limestone valley.

Swirling clouds of grey quarry dust descends

Down onto the gleamless town.

It is Autumn.

Nature now, before the fall of Winter’s hoary curtain

Acts out the Finale for yet another year.

Hawthorns and elderberries, dressed for the show,

Dance amidst copper leaves from burnished trees,

Falling and drifting, blanketing the frost chilled fields.

All things bright and beautiful.

In the stone town, houses huddle together

Scant protection from the threatening storms.

In their midst, a yellow refuse van, glimpse seen, weaves

In and out, out and in, shuttling to and fro

Through the threads of endless grey.

All is still. Hushed.

The silence breaks.

The quarry stirs and belches, spewing rock from its belly,

Manna to the mechanical parasites who pounce on the fresh meal,

Gnawing and tearing, gulping down huge mouthfuls.

Dogs bark, unseen.

All creatures great and small.

The school lies empty by the roadside.

Displaced limestone broods where children once played

Growing, spreading, burying.

Praying for a reprieve, a nearby cottage sits neglected,

Its inner life force removed to the cemetery, by the quarry.

Dust to dust.

By the tombstones, a small chapel crouches by the wall

Indistinguishable from cow sheds on the landscape.

Refuges for all God’s creatures.

The church in the town advertises bingo on the service boards.

All things wise and wonderful.

Down the mud-streaked road, and old man hobbles and hops

Avoiding the blank, cheerless eyes of the quarry hydra.

He reaches sanctuary in The Rising Sun pub

Symbol of hope amidst the enveloping gloom.

Another day. Another explosion dissecting the living body of the land.

Monsters roar. Hills shudder.

Wind moans. Dogs whimper.

Earth sighs.

The black birds fly away, mourning.

The Lord  God made them all.

©1986