I watched you paint here, in quarry land.
Where the pap of the county was patient to drastic surgery.
Where man rent up earth with intense, mechanised urgency,
To harvest grit and stone.
We watch the space here, in quarry land.
Breast bone cracked open to scar lines and slag heaps
Masticated rock seams of piped dreams up cliff leaps,
Gorse stitched yellow fanned.
Absorb the life here, in quarry land.
Place of old wound, metallic fingers scraped raw a ridge.
Yet cloud tears fill man's trench, nature grew her bridge
Disused, once abused, now beautiful.
And we are the same here, the same as quarry land:
Our whip welts, life's cat o' nine, the scars are left behind
Defined, yet refined by events our souls maligned.
In our wounding, lies our beauty.
(Painting by Wes Martin, for his Daily Painting project. awmartist.blogspot.com)
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