Let slip my mind to hills, which cry out, ‘Country!’
At Swanley, plastic bottles flood the verge.
Ferns curl — copper shavings shroud detritus;
Detritus which is swept and then ignored.
The train leaps a road and on that bridge I’m dying.
My flesh and blood diverges from the whole,
Caught by tunnels, pinioned by dour darkness.
In distant hills, my mind begins to roam.
