They wail in waves. Metronomic.
The snare of drummed out working week.
The hi-hat jitter of FTSE soldiers marching.
As to war. Rhythmic. Arrythmic.
The heart that beats and skips
As if it were human. Keeping time.
And much else besides:
The shirts from our backs. The fat of the land.
A gravy train smear: this shit-brown
Archipelago of retail parks that once were towns.
The glass, these days, is cleaner, it's true.
The better to see the land slide past
Mold-green and unpleasant: these fields
Where they roam in packs. Mad-dog mad-stare
They drool and point, like the bodysnatched
Who smell among them a rat, then race to the cliffs
Where the wicker pyres burn high in 1970s colour.
We wail in the quiet zone.
Offers abound in the in-flight glossy.
"Customer satisfaction is our business."
"Don't forget your valuables."
But ours were forgot, junked years ago.
Remember the Clause IV moment when the rot set in?
Value today's to be found elsewhere
In this pendolino rush to a terminus of hope.
"The British rail," said the man with the newspaper stare.
"But at all the wrong things."
With that he drifted off and dreamt of scorched earth
And a wind that tore through the Alpujarras hills
As if with a purpose.
Granada, August 2013.