Most people who read this post know I write Smallholding Humour. Well that's the genre Amazon list my book in. One also attempts (only now and again) to write poetry. I am fascinated with old buildings, ruins in particular. Especially the way nature reclaims the stones and architecture. Animals take up residence in the rooms and Ivy spreads its fingers blanketing the walls.
I often go a walk in the West Cork countryside stopping now and again and looking at the old stone roofless cabins. Many of these old ruins inhabitants died of starvation during the Great Famine in Ireland. Many of the people emigrated to Britain, Australia and North America and Canada. I often think:
"If only these walls could speak".
I wrote the following poem about a Lancashire cotton mill many years ago:
ODE TO A RUIN.
A mill in retirement,
Ghosts of yesterday, disarray
Pitiful natures sad lament,
Crumbling mortar, times slaughter
"King Cotton" is no more,
Boulders fall, abstract tall
Rumbling debris cascades pour,
History passing through stones fingers,
No workers sweat, just silhouette
Their memory still lingers.
Mike Harding sings a very moving song on You Tube: King Cotton.
Thanks for reading this! I'll write another post later in the week!
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