Night at The Model Village
I lock myself in after they leave,
Wishing Well coins sinking
like dreams of golden fish.
Sloshed tea from my flask
runs off the back of hulked earth
shrouded in Astroturf.
The last train crawls
through a drainpipe tunnel
for the same platform faces.
Fear the weather. Take them in now.
The colour of their clothes, their skin,
will begin to fade.
Eggbox-cobbled streets demand constant attention.
Rows of terraces wake like Christmas lanterns.
Light spills in shafts from the pub window.
The needle skips inside. A long gone voice stuck
with a mouthful of words it cannot speak.
Fog obscures foam-filled tombstones,
nameless for the empty coffins beneath.
The storm is almost upon us.
Animals will be swept away,
roofs will cave in, rats
will repossess the houses.
Outside the torchlight, dark thickens.
Damp scent of turned earth.
A pack of dogs rattles
through expanding woods.
Over the hills, strangers come,
more than I imagined;
flashlights, scattered voices.
The day visitors see none of this.
Published in Page & Spine