- Vol. 01
- Chapter 04
the trainline is damaged at DawlishThis is how I imagine my death now.
As slow and as sudden, as if by titanic
I am sinking.
Silverware, slips of marital cloth
(once smooth satin) stolen away already.
They left us a bed, at least, and electrics
to adapt, with spirit, to rising levels
of silent pressure. Hushed river (was road)
feels a way around the curb, the camera,
the concrete apology coming too late.
We were not city. No business
in the country. Too slick savages,
'side farmers, seeking sky for red warning.
And some proverbs are simply not worth saving.
I think we are amphibian
by force, and excited at last, by the press,
the release, when water rushes to recover flats
and fills us, to the brim, to bursting.
Washed out, passed the point;
thank heavens I am insured.