The Crescent Buxton 2006
With ground floor windows boarded up,
I imagine it a bombed out relic from the war.
The Fencing and the keep out signs
Intimidate, but underline its plight.
And yet the people passing by seem
Not to care, have lived with this for fourteen years,
Grown used to silent emptiness
That lies within the ancient limestone walls, and
Seeing only quarried blocks (for beauty
Can be a gash, a rent in the hillside,
A disassembly of nature) they use trucks
And trains to take away the heart stone;
The living rock cut out by men, handled ,
Crafted, shaped with iron tools held by
Hands, hardened by work, by pride,
Each limestone block, fits into a plan.
Meanwhile promises to recreate the former grandeur
Are made and broken, and only
The fencing, graffiti stained, gets replaced,
Spawning angry letters in the local paper.
But in the deserted rooms, ghosts quietly
Dance with the dust and the moonbeams,
While the corridors reach out, silently
Yearning for the touch and warmth of life.