The Heavens Reflect our Labours
Graeme Williams
When I was a child,
The sky would light up,
A royal red glow,
As our queens bestowed,
Their molten gifts,
Of iron and steel,
Upon a grateful town.
And stories are told,
Of how, whole crowds,
Moved to the sound,
Of the factory buzzer,
Which like a church bell,
Or muezzin’s call,
Summoned the faithful to prayer.
And our mums and dads,
A priesthood of sorts,
Made burnt offerings,
Of iron-ore,
Upon the altars
Of fiery, white heat,
In the temples of steel.
But my eyes have seen,
The fires grow cold,
The altars torn down,
The furnaces sold,
By politicians,
Who worship false gods,
The gods of the prophet, Ayn Rand
Artwork Location
Address:
Central Park, Kingsway DN17 1BL
What3Words: ///sculpture.label.ritual
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