These silent totems and the smog only a breath above. The still pond and the watchtower. The giant portakabin canteen empty, dust sticking to its grease, where briefly they came, once visited. The park meadows are left to nature. Not hacked back any more, weeds are growing now. The canal, sludged up, reveals its shopping trolleys and plastic. But the railway lines are busy. People pass, noses pressed against the windows, staring. And beyond the tracks the towers rising, the remains of artillery, the air ambulance – and the city itself, its sheen of gold, citizens drinking Coca-Cola, munching Hula Hoops.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts