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.