Plate 4 of 'Visions of the Daughters of Albion' c.1795 by William Blake 1757-1827

Sprung deep between the cracks of the slabs in Peckham Rye
come the sprigs of empires children their old masters to defy.
Here where Blake saw angels where shepherds quenched a thirst,
the outcast and the stolen are reaching to be first.

From terraces and tower blocks confined as the unseen,
they soar with aspirations beyond their silent dreams.
Though Highwaymen of history defoliate the past,
their shoots will not be stunted as they forge upwardly at last.

English roses clipped and rootless look so pretty on the shelf,
Smooth stemmed, perfumed, useless, soul-less in their wealth.
Stronger grow the slum-flowers that climb toward the Sun
for abundant is the garden that is sown for everyone.

© Wolfgar 2020

Gin Lane


That wretched beast upon the stairs
her child in freefall unaware.

Her tit un-suckled, withered, sags,
she pinching snuff among the lags.

In kettled pots the liquor swills
dispensed as slops by those it kills,

who smiling gasp then beg for more
while treading piss they drank before.

their inane grins on hollowed cheeks
betray the sins they cannot speak.

The barrow boys who fleece the corpse
upend the stiffs with no remorse,

where in the guttered waste they lie
their sated taste has drunk them dry.

© Wolfgar 2020

Carn Galva


Here where winds blow unheard
Atlantic skies surrender hope,
Incomers sit in cars to stare at the Sea.

Out there on the waves no-one watches the Land
where ruins slowly crumble,
where walkers comb the wilding gorse.

The cyclops lighthouse pirouettes
it blinks where darkened time forgets,
some hidden scapes remain untouched.

Stone stacks idly finger the smokeless sky,
the air too rarified that men might work
where empty windowed homesteads die.

Signposts point to further places
beyond these scorched earth empty spaces,
here where people pass like clouds.

© Wolfgar 2020

The smugglers tunnel


Bible black surrounds, wet walls and puddled floor
hunched with shoulders loaded full toward the seascape door.

Beneath the damp and smokey lanes that spiral through the town, 
the bloody aproned Butcher spies the Priest in priestly gown.

The gossips roam the stone lined streets between the ancient dwellings,
to breathe a swarm of whispers embellished with each telling.

But where the tunnel beckons toward the foamy sea,
the pebbled beach in solitude lays waiting just for me.

And I with burdened memories cast my secrets to the waves,
and pray they are forgotten like dead men in their graves.

© Wolfgar 2020