Whale-weight of Pendle presses down
on me
As I set out my cold steel implements,
Like a pathologist must. Rain, wind
sent,
Beats a steady rhythm, and gloom
seems to be
All pervasive even with the lights
on.
I am charged with dismantling the
music,
Ruinating racks of keys with which quick
Fingers unlocked this vault of notes.
All gone
Now, timed out into silence. It’s
just old,
Not antique, not collectable, too big
To be carried out in one piece, the
rig
Must be broken down, dumped, sight
unsold.
Pendle plunges through a sea of mist
as the spray
Of rain washes cold, cold ashes
further away.
Dave Alton
