Valleys of the Kings
My valleys not green, no carpets of fern
Or bluebells white snowdrops where chaffinches flirt
Missing are buttercups, daisies in rows
We traded them all for bare nesting for crows
It doesn’t have hills of golden fine sand
Its anthracite black and has pyramid mounds
Camouflaged meagerly, not chiseled, not round
I named it Mount Slag Pile spawned underground
It’s higher than the sea gulls fly, blacker than a ravens dye
The only birds left are those dressed in black, if they wore white tuxes the Emperors would laugh
Jackdaws caw, crows in revolt, smite no more, now refrain
Tumbling slag, corrupt design, a tombstone collider an epitaph signed
Celtic cross nor Sphinx arise quarry crude lumps random size
Pile them high until they tilt, ahoy below speed your gait
Bulldozing them flat seeded with grass coniferous
jungles like mango tree traps
The silence is chilling until the mound groans
The raven dye sludge spewed down the mound tracks
The pyramid mound lay flat on the ground alas many souls will never be found.
The buckets rope stopped, maybe respect, more likely its Sunday when all the kings knelt
