Wooden slats rotten, splintered
tracks abandoned, hidden.
Rusted iron carries a bitter taste,
blackberry stems
grip, tangle, choke the metal.
Track ballast crunches, shifts
black, pockmarked slag sunbathes.
Glass bottles of Fentimans lemonade
lay dusty, cracked, labels peeling
amongst the still gleaming Becks.
Woodland side-entrance leads
to a small stream and green canopy.
An ancient tyre swings in the breeze
as trees creak, moan, shake;
Ents awakening.
No comments:
Post a Comment