On the black slope

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.