Remnants

There sits a man by a lake in the cold valley,
hunched over, still, face as scarred as the old quarry
waiting for the wheel to turn, coal to flood back in.
Gone, those days, remnants of steel and masonry.

Snow settles, night draws in, freezes fireless furnace,
yet he sits by the lake, eyes the winding tower,
sits, waiting, hopes for the wheel to resume turning.
Black gold no more, the mine sleeps despite his yearning.

New Osmosis

Photosynthesis
has never been
so toxic.

The tree is cloaked
with rusted steel.
Oil trickles
from wounds
in the metal,
congealing,
clotting.

The leaves reek
of petrol fumes,
the withered branches
droop from the heat
of leaded starch,

piston-roots thrumming,
powering the engine
beneath the trunk,
pumping up oil
which soaked in
when it fell from
soot-infested clouds.