As day retreats, lights come on in the pinched windows of edgeland. There’s a weary shadow play of sorting laundry, fixing meals before the curtains close. New build. Once marshalling yard, now space for one car each. More for a show home. No bus service.
The fen long drained, its waters tamed, is bound by concrete gutters. Rigid, barren. From the last teardrop of scrub, no-one sees the footpad. He finds the hidden snickets, cuts through dark back alleys. Road signs, all turned about, have just one direction. Out.
He doesn’t look back. Traipses through the town, admires its sandstone features. Cares not what crimes have been committed. Where derelict transmutes to real estate, there’s lure of breezy quayside cafes. Steel and glass. The salt air has no memory; nothing grows in it.
v. 2025
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