Desolate rock-strewn mountains
lit by cold sunlight

Prayer flags flap in
ceaseless Himalayan winds

An armless, broken Buddha smiles
from a desecrated temple floor

Whisper a soft prayer as you pass, friend,
for there is a spirit here.
The days and nights relentlessly come and go,
as do the endless seasons.

Men rise and fall, each in their turn,
like the withered grasses,
sheltered for a brief span by my lichened walls,
sleeping in my shadow-ridden depths.

For old am I,
so very old.

The northern winds blow ceaselessly
over my cold, weathering stones,
for the hearth-fires of the Cruithne
are long since turned to ash.

She walked through pastures green
beneath an oppressive sky,
warm July drizzle drifting down
over web-strewn hedgerows,
bejewelling her coat
and forming tiny pearls
on her long, black lashes.

Lost in reverie, she ambled
slowly down hill towards
a reed-edged stream
where, she recalled,
small birds chased midges
when the hot sun shone;
but not today, when humidity
stifled their flight,
keeping them close by men's houses
in search of scraps
and small, errant insects.

Absently, she noticed the long grasses
clinging wetly to her legs,
and as dim thoughts lumbered
through her bovine brain,
wondered if she and her sisters
would be taken away for milking
before the downpour broke.

At six o’clock your day begins
You pray forgiveness for your sins
Your gruel and your clothes are thin
At the workhouse

Pick oakum ‘til your fingers bleed
It matters not your age nor creed
The overseer will tend your needs
At the workhouse

At noon you take your daily bread
A little meat or cheese instead
You eat in silence bow your head
At the workhouse

And when the working day is o’er
Your body aches your hands are sore
Your bed’s a pallet on the floor
At the workhouse

And pauper when your day is past
There’ll be no coffin gilt with brass
You’ll lie in sackcloth ‘neath the grass
At the workhouse

Radiating twilight, and are the deer awake?
Grey and ghostly shadows come a-gliding through the break;
Wolf and fox and boar are here, glowing through the may,
So far away in Chernobyl about the break of day.

Evacuated city sleeps abandoned now and still,
Stunted trees and weeds grow rife, the air is dank and chill;
Contaminated apples wouldn’t tempt old Eve to play,
So far away in Chernobyl about the break of day.

Classrooms lie with open books, and shops with open doors,
The soccer stadium’s overgrown, the fairground Ferris snores;
Vines climb up apartment blocks, old washing hangs and sways,
So far away in Chernobyl about the break of day.

The monster that is always near lies mumbling in its sleep,
Cracking, shedding toxic dust as Geiger counters bleep;
Post-apocalyptic scene, atomic age Pompeii,
So far away in Chernobyl about the break of day.