Reclaimed Land
The pinnacle…
follow the lights and you will find the gold.
A Severn wind rattles the soul,
rain like pins my face a cushion.
Edifice a vision, wooden windows a fact,
a collection of faces glued in community,
Now divided again by scheme funded foolery.
To escape is to renounce
only with strength from intrinsicality.
As thrust upon pages turn,
A dyeing side street lives
on the ensign of principality
ALAN WHITFIELD 