Despite the cold stare that greets us every morning
-Should we choose to see it.
Set against the modest beauty of the moorland hills,
The pale languid look of haunted men
Tells tales centuries old.
Poisonous stories of greed and cold-blooded compromise,
Of slow and steady seduction
Into a way of life fit for no one;
Even the common sparrow would scorn the chance
To play a part in this tepid tragedy.
Hear their voices,
The empty moans of dark and dreary souls,
The acrid cynicism of folk
Halfway to the grave of empty desperation.
And yet the struggle is still ours,
And so we smile on,
Knowing that we can still grow good
By the days that could first grow colder,
As we ride on into the wind,
Our love entwined and God on our side,
Feeding the truths we share
With a union of our souls,
Cathedral slaves of our passion
Which builds beauty amongst chaos.
From New Poetry