Tuesday, 15 September 2009

The Iberian Hiatus is over.

Oak trees mushroom-cloud-up from fields of green soft corn, the leafy eruptions growing on our discharged air, 

blackthorn, elder and gorse line these tracks, softening the noise from the East Anglia express, 

the metal and sleepers deep rumble calmed, transmitted through earth into

brown cool water flowing unintelligibly, on the banks stingers sting and the columbine creeps.

Caravans and prefab sheds jut from bushes, intended for development, "in my day son all this was fields"

New bright red roofs, squat in old fields, "The Meadows, Badger's Nook and Brook View"

Kebabery & DFC fried chicken, new imports service the tastes of an old village now modern town expanding, 

53 Park Central, a Barratt home rash, love all the people, all of the time. 

Fuel to this expansion, mountains of aggregate loom over a closed post office, village pissed office. 

New homes, new roads, new towns, a supply to exceed expected demands.

Rough again, bird scarers, horse jumps, rotting metal and electric fences, 

Walking around the edge of an immaculate game-of-the-gods cricket pitch, 

a man in tweed with a nose-to-the-ground gun dog, thinks, lunch, shares, the future?

Within earshot of a hard working weir, rusting farm machinery, an iron man carcass, basks in hot sun, 

That crow wasn't flying in a straight line, a ruined pill box sinking in rape, an archaic threat never realised, ardently remembered, 1966 and all that, stuck in the past, resenting the new, a rosy nostalgia for a verdant utopia.

Signal boxes and pylons, tall pines, if an English man's home is his castle then his garden is his kingdom his Jerusalem, control over decking and ideals, his pastoral England. More clean edges, lawn in check, white plastic garden set, four seats and a table, bedding plants, double garage and no plans for anything fast.

East Anglia is balding, the countryside receding, 

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