Poem: Quarry.

Laptop - Check.

Poetry collection - Check.

A half-decent command of the English language after all this time - Check?

Gin and tonic (large)- Check and check (and check.)

Let's do this.

Hi everyone. It's been a while since I last posted. We're approaching the two week mark now, the longest I've ever gone without posting. An inability to think of anything to write about plus a bout of depression coupled with extreme exhaustion have taken over lately. That's not gone, but I've decided that the best pick-me-up is going to be productivity, so here goes.

I still can't think of a thing to write about that seems relevant to where I'm at. I do have ideas ready for when the time feels right, but that's not now. Instead of doing a rambling post about what's currently going on with my work (that would be not much) I'm going to take the opportunity to share a piece of my poetry. While I've done this on social media before, I've never done it on my actual blog.

The piece I've chosen feels special to me this week, because it's about a disused quarry near my home where like to walk. I wrote it only a couple of weeks ago. This week, it has been fenced off for building work and I may never be able to go there again, depending on how much is built on and whether or not it continues to be fenced off afterwards. While I'm sad to have lost this place, I am so grateful that I had the inspiration to immortalise it, if only for myself. The photos I have shared with this piece are photos of the quarry which I've taken myself. It was important to me to show the actual place as opposed to using stock photos this time.

So, here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Quarry

There is a place I sometimes go,

but no...

Why tell you when I can show?

Walk with me through the cursed streets,

down a littered snicket;

different rubbish every day.

Then, through the trees

and spring bluebells.

Half-built stone wall,

mossy carpet from which ferns grow.

Here is a dirt path.

The trees grow sparse

and, through them, the old quarry

spreads from here down to the tracks.

Hear the trains toot and click-clack.

Follow me to a rocky ledge.

The suburbs and city stretch out ahead.

Feel the wind tear at your hair,

carrying the screeching revs 

of dirt bikes below.

It will be peaceful when they go.

And see the landscape over which they ride,

steep hills, blind bends,

fly-tipped rusting obstacles here and there.

But here too we can see new growth

since man ceased taking the lands resources,

leaving the whole place stripped, exhausted.

Young trees here, buddleias there.

Wildflowers, thistles, the landscape's repair.

I am this place. This place is me.

My soul's metaphor for all to see.

© V. H. Stone.