Ozone and hydrocarbons when a mattock hits industrial slag.
The certainty and precision of technical drawings.
A lungfull of cement dust.
Builders.
Silence at lunchtime when the machines stop.
Talking all day, more exhausting than shovelling.
Sheet-metal buildings felled, revealing pristine green slopes behind.
Evening vegetation.
A day in the office, a day wasted.
A picnic by the sheaf.
Celandine, anenome, every plant a friend.
A carrier bag full of ramsons and ground elder.
Every glance a potential meal: how could you ever starve here?
Bicycling against time, patience exhausted.
A tour of secret art galleries.
Pathetic expressions of privilege and wasted opportunities.
A room full of pure magic.
St. George's day on Devonshire Green: a perfection of blandness.
Waiting, waiting, waiting in a bar.
Reaching exhaustion behind a drum set.
Too little sleep.
The smell of rain at dawn.
Bicycling empty 6am sunday morning city arteries.
Hull.
Mud further than the eye can see.
Mist over spurn head, the end of the world, the threshold. (Song for Our Ancestors)
Plastic pollution in the seas.
No comments:
Post a Comment