Nothing ever happens

A familiar slideshow of picture postcards sidle by
through the bubble of your train window;

trees new in leaf and freshly-printed lambs,
fractured stonewalling clinging impossibly to hill,

separating off precious little from fuck-all.
The sky and its clouds coyly flash their underclothes.

A carriage of clock-faced tourists crowd the air,
urgently brandish their smartphone-screens,

imagining the cage-door on reality has swung open,
their hearts sinking into redemptions on which

the paint is designed to never fully dry. But all
you see is static. Putrefaction. In your head,

repeated showreels of exotic concrete and metal
outmuscle the chocolate-box churchyard, stones

bearing your name, whose soil has a terrifying appetite
for your heart, your bones. Its jaws are closing.


Robert Ford‘s poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, US and elsewhere, including Under the Radar, Butcher’s Dog, The Interpreter’s House andย San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found atย