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The Seeds Wait
Abandoned behind hoardings,
the brewery crumbles.
A remnant of an older town,
almost a village.
Its human scale dwarfed
by rising steel and glass.
Behind a shining mesh
people leave their cars,
to scurry across the bridge,
over choreographed traffic.
In the vacant yard doors unhinge,
tiles slide from beams, askew.
Empty windows stare, black,
at buddleia and willowherb
rising to reclaim the land,
pushing through crumpled roofs.
And under the proud hard structure,
a monument to our new lives,
free of our grandparentsÕ toil,
the seeds wait.
Morag Gornall 16.07.09
