The Lead Mine Poem by john appleby

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,
no song now to embrace like ivy, the blood has run still.

This place begs forgiveness for playing host to the
breaking of backs.
The cloud watchers who returned underground to flay
the dark and surface, basket backed, stung by wind to
spill the guts of earth onto heath.

Silent ghosts must return now and then to confess
their complicity, memory aches, dull heart not comprehending
the sadness.

The old shafts return to fish the rippling pools of sky
and abandon their sorrow in the embracing earth lung.