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BLOOD RUST

Jean Jones

Milton Keynes

Blood Rust

The discarded carcass clings
To the desolate dune,
Where passing birds leave only shadows
And clouds scud high, then hurry by.
A possession, once prized, but now despised
As the east wind harries the hollow shell
And salt spray marries with rust
To riddle the pitted metal.

On the wind I catch the sound of picks and drills,
The quiet murmur of men trudging home -
Each breath a tussle with death.
As the sky lours
And waves plunder the shore,
I see the flash of white hot metal,
Hear the thunder of heavy machines
Fashioning plates of steel to their will.
In the eye of the storm,
Dwell the dreams of designers
And the burgeoning boredom
Of assembly liners

And now it just lies there -
So far from city or road,
Cash to ashes, rust to dust -
But still with the power to move.


Jean Jones

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