Sunday, 9 February 2014

Been on the trail of the Wickerman


What has happened here?
Why are the cottages shuttered,
the streets primed for tumbleweed?
Where are the zimmers, 
the folk carrying parcels of fish,
the kids drumming on fences,
the men and women walking back
leaden footed from work?
Only the offices to prevent
rural depopulation are open,
their computer screens flickering
madly behind half closed blinds.
I am waiting for these small villages 
by the sea to regenerate, 
like in some film,
to be born of flame,
and while I do, public art sprouts
above me,
huge and mysterious like alien pods.

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