Christopher Hopkins writes

Mera Field

And on the stoke, 

the honour bell.
A sounding peal across the stow.
The feel of vinyl cafe tops,
the kicks and knocks of pub door swings,
all that line the roads of those peach stones.

A ringing in the ear of the war dead,
above the pound shop till ring din.
The who and why almost lost,
like the wrought iron leaf under the council’s brush,
there on that resting place of brass and reed,
at the centre of the park.

You can trace your fingers across their names,
lifted, weathered rubbed,
on the black brass plates upon the gate.
Names still called in playground shouts,
amongst the team sheet nods,
but lost in a liberty of sorts.

And while dark the soul of the country's heart,
how would the sounding ghosts see their land?
As their reason for endurance or their murder ground?
Such the surrender in this no man’s land.
This losing war on red earth floors.
Of hope and strength the unthinkable loads.

Of youth once blind on destiny,
now blind with allegories,
on the food bank opportunities,
the poor callow fools of the self.
And the old like unwanted books,
bent double from the winding punch of the unseen wounds.

Hearts slitted up like the lungs of old. 

The life is death and death holds all,
all in this hideous familiar.
And the pointed bells strikes
with such savage discipline,
sounding past the roundabouts and flag poles,

cafes and the hairdressers,
the white goods and red faces,
the betting shops and the charity whores,
who stand behind their glass counters,
and past the church paths and graveyards,
tended only by nature’s hand

and council strimmers.
And like the shot that kills the poet,
the last ring of the hammered chive,
and air comes white with peace.
The senselessness comes to fall,
from lace doilie houses to rotting town hall.

There will be no prayers.
No torch held high.
No chives or bells for these fallen souls.
None shall be remembered.
Just a town pronounced dead,
for the best it is said.

 -- NeSpoon