10/03/2012
Every inch void
concrete, brick or stone
Blossoms beautiful
bursts of nature
Crippled sticks creep
through cracks
Of towns so full of
nurture
Every margin man has
missed
On every impossible
angle
Land is steeped with
climbing moss,
Shrubbery that does
stand and tangle
Valleys denting
rolling hills
Village dense survival
Where people, plants
and precipitation
Are all equal friend
to rival
Streams a winding
mimic gliding
Landscapes cut from
rock
Slants and slopes
slither southward
With farmland sitting
top
The sandstone, slate
and dust collate
With rabbits, twigs
and harvest
Creating colour
scheming drawings
A crayon canvas with
no artist
The weaving roads need
willing walls
To warn off all the
wild
Of dandelions and
shrubbery
Encroaching from both
sides
Houses, with the
woodland
All hunching in a row
With embroidered
finite fences
Failing to stop flora
grow
Standing solid, spire
churches
Are like pins stuck in
a map
But at the very bottom
The graves lay under
grass
Samh
