the buildings are demolished
or crumbling, powder-house
and smelting-mill
the long flues collapsing
up the hill

tick-ridden bracken
thickens to the water's edge

still I pick stones
eager to find
unearthed ore
dusting the fingers
with its weighty presence

poison, said mother,
wash your hands when you've touched it

the cool beck licks
my fingers clean
and does not die

Taken from The Prophecy of Christos (Jackson Arm, 1992)