Drive to the junkyard,
to check out the weather

beating into ironwork,
the torsion of steel.

Or swing by the dealer
of aggregate and masonry,

blue quartz and white lime
are drifting pyramids

on the concrete forecourt,
where a seashell is astray

from the channel bed.
A house is all that remains.

Pass the wall by the railway,
where nettles sway in the breeze

behind chain link. Bleached paper.
Porn in bracken. Broken glass.

The beer cans around the campfire
are the remains of the weekend.

Over there is what you wish for,
here is what you have.

I seek to absent myself
through these routines.

Graffiti on the signal house,
corrosion biting into yellow paint.

A peculiar quality
to light in these days:

grey fading into white,
cinders dumped into milk.

*

Taken from Daniel’s first collection, West South North, North South East, which will be published next year by The High Window.

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