Cloud swell ushers in the haze
occluding all but satin stone.
Beat smooth by north by northwest winds.
Holding fast, with greater chance of rain.
Each lintel every crowding part
that layers slivers
down the brickwork blood and
heather sprouting cobble,
is salt as part of It Is sea.
There’ll never be a better son, than the man who died inside.
There’ll never be more love for rooms that offered shelter,
heat and life,
but never love.
Each lintel, every mortared dart, that shivered to the passing dirge.
Combustive thunder, tarmac triumph.
Till it breaches.
Groundswell turns the latter days to history
as the masons crack the mystery.
Shivers down the plaster casting,
Love and life to spoil.