by Steve Tanham
Pale lines of south-stacked wooden trunks
Soften ancient village stone
Where once the powder of destruction
Overnighted, dry, in locked Saltpetre Shed
And as the sunrise called to sleepy boatmen
Roused to disgorge coal and fill the holds of narrow boats
Long with loads of that which, alone save gods, could rend the stone apart
Now gone, where peaceful grass, and pond, alone, fills the once watery Wharf
That, then, contained the many voices laughing
The sunken ghosts of eighteen thirty’s wakening eyes.
(c)Copyright Stephen Tanham, 2016.
Beautiful poem, Steve. A wistful and quiet read 🙂
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Thank you, Diana. And the ‘Saltpetre’ as the gunpowder store was (and is) called is at the end of our garden, half of which is the old canal basin – devoid of water since the late 1950s. We are fond of the piece of industrial history that surrounds us.
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I enjoyed this, and your comment gives it added depth.
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Thank you. A simple theme – the bottom of our garden, but seen in a new way this morning.
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Reblogged this on Sue Vincent – Daily Echo.
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Reblogged this on Stuart France.
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