Barcodes Rachel J. Fenton

The edge of the foundry woods
scanned,  sold for the price of cheap goods to build the new estate.

The unmarked road,
asphalt and dirt trailing to the former brown belt site
was none of their business: 
planned by grey suited men,
not them.

Yet, like a cherry orchard,
a year on
the trees have gone;
you can see the woods.