So the valley held us
Every shale-y bank known root to sod,
How easy it was then to make this place our own.
Yet grown we cling here still – hanging on;
Oh how I’ll miss this, my moss and sandstone Kingdom,
When it’s done and gone;
Now hold me close to this once-a-home.
Though still I can’t bear the sight,
These ghosts and nettles,
That stench of displaced lives;
Oh if this is what our home is yet to be…
I ‘best move on.
Let the old script run again,
One last time,
No I’ll not stand against my own,
To put down that work long owing.
So the old man’ll let it go,
– or they’re like’ to push him,
For, despite what they may say,
He’s not ‘much fight in him these days.
No, there’ll be no tractor ‘cross the track,
Just an open gate and a teary face,
And that world of ‘belonging’ won’t mean a thing,
Should Cundell’s come rolling in.
In a blink,
The kids we were,
This land they owned,
Will pass, for us, to memory.
…Which is what I’d asked for anyway.