Celtic Poem

All the dead land from the urban waste
has covered parentage with slag and dust
to bring an end to sad, romantic language
used by poor and helpless lovers.

In this smoke, my eyes would burn
to cover up my tears at all the illness,
death and power lying in the air like hate
to keep us stitched to earth and sand.

Our gods have wings and fly this night
to fight polluted air with sense and love
of Angels in the blasted architecture,
lost for ever in the grass and hills of home.

And essays on the health of industry
will never bring us occupations.
You fail forever if you bring us death
and fail further with your smiles and sand.