Here -
Where...carriageway kinks line a metal assault on painted bank..
Where...melted slice of stairway rug folds into careless shoe..
Where...half gloved hands rap on steel plate and small window..
Where...damp cloth pulled tight obscures fading gossip..
Where...crowds gather to pass time and silence..
is the place language comes to die.
Here -
Where...bleak splintered openings face corrupt wired rubble..
Where...stoney engined vehicle bruises centre lane grass..
Where...fallen dead trees gather along stolen factory wall..
Where...broken machinery sits proudly inside dusty windowed derelict shelter..
Where...shredded cliff top grass twists halted message..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Steve Coel
