john appleby


The Lead Mine

Crusted finger points to heaven, as if to accuse.
Abandoned in the folds of scrub, lichen coated tower
storm pitted, ravished by the seasons, lies bewildered
beneath the cloud stacks.

Its purpose stolen by nesting jackdaws smelting their young
amongst the blackened bricks and grass.
Fern and bramble wrestle in shadows and nettles-high flown,
root and twist in the lime and dust,

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