On the black slope

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This afternoon on the waste strewn black scree

Of a  slag heap on the mountains high slope

I hear a plovers call in the far distance

 

I’ve come here each day for a week

Photographing the way that plants re-colonise

The barren ground of frost shattered shale.

 

Somehow a small yellow flower has emerged

Amongst the splinters of this barren mire

And life slowly returns to the black slope.

 

 

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