Passacaglia
William Bealby-Wright, Jim Parker (UK)
Open lies, they once were singing
Silent, once were cornfields, meadows, pastures
Stumbling into villages
That once were something more than rafters
Claw fallen sky and boulders lie almost silent
Dry wind picks the rib cage of a croft
Hones rusty spokes and spars of reaper, hoe
Harrow and plough make creaking lyres
Ancient implements corrode in brittle bracken
Burnt black brambles, briars
Silent but for the sounds of crumbling
Crack of broken glass
Here's nothing to be found
Time I started making tracks back home
The jaded skiffle of my feet rebound