Buxton on an Autumn Day

As a change from the Goyt I spent an hour or so wandering around the town with Mrs BW and my camera. It was a glorious autumnal day. Sunny but cold and for a change no wind.



Sadly the crescent is still empty, as it has been for the past sixteen years. It is on the verge of being refurbished, but as we have been there before, I guess we will believe it when we see it. At the moment it stands as a crumbling monument to short sightedness, ignorance and inertia.

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.