On the yellow hill there are no memorials
But set before it are fractured hollows where stone should be
And in the ruins and tramways stand the quarry men's houses
Where there are voices that we cannot hear
Nails in boots on cobbles
The dust and toil
The hail, wind, rain and snow
This is the place where voices would have been heard
They would have been here mixed with steam and hammer blows and furnaces
Cranes, shovels, tuns
The birds would have seen the capped heads of men
Iron wheels and oiled hands
Now they see the yellow hill
The curling grasses
And grazing the empty land - sheep, ponies, cows
And a man with a dog
Scribbling.
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An idea for another painting is formulating.
Paul.
This hit a nerve for me
ReplyDeleteI hope not a bad one Elaine .
DeleteLove it. Xxxxx
ReplyDeleteLove is always welcome x
Delete