LEAD
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)