A Writer of Sorts
With the battle lost, the remnants,
ground down, were used
as hardcore for roads, built
to bolster shiny new tram lines
that rush people past the ‘dozer
razed haunt, with a nonchalant hum.
The citadel sacked – while no one
watched – and sold. Remnants
became souvenirs deemed ‘perfect
for your rock garden needs.’ The rest,
in pieces, waits; prisoners of war held
in a landfill site in Beighton.
I dreamed of its rubble as seeds
cemented in an unkempt allotment,
waiting for the right conditions
– in a far future spring – to battle
the weeds, to break through
their interred kernels and bolt.
The first tentative sprout of mewling
bungalow nurtured into the thin hormonal
foliage of a sapling maisonette; the hirsute
forest of executive apartments dressed
in cosmetic designer opulence, and finally
into pullulating maturity, their lime rendered
castellations crowning the luscious, deck-access
palace. Its place in legend assured.