where men worked tired hours
weight of the years digging
shovels bigger than city houses
only the dust of history remains.
where lunchboxes sat in the windy sun,
a grey soil remains,
a mineral face.
it whistles like a piper’s tune-
that wind from nowhere
where tails ride out the breezes
and birds dive into blue holes,
and history changes-
rebirth.
something poetic 