poet. writer. imposter.
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.