THE MAST ON WINTER HILL

It looks over the valley

where the trains rattle and creak

on the worn out tracks

below the distant peaks.

 

It looks over the high street

where locals wander round

with little else to do

than keep their eyes to the ground.

 

It looks over my room

a red-lit beacon at night

a giant hypodermic needle

injecting Northern spite.

 GREGORY ALLEN

 

 

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