The Grange
By Rory Shaw McGinley
The grange
Black is the white of the faceless
at the grinding wheel.
Time and light, endless
What should they feel.
All is grey now, yet
the still plough, stands strange
amongst the smoke, high
over the fallen grange.
The farm is slain
the village, hidden in the tears
of skyless days, nights are gone
the last winter nears.
I hear the corrupt lords
stamping, dancing for the slaves
leaving their scraps, for the hungry
in a trail to their graves.
Faint, the brass band serenades
the tune comes from the old mine
on the wind, covering fields
ever the aimless, crossing time.
The body cries and writhes
in the delirium of a coloured dreams
running through worlds,
where nothing is as it seems.
love it