A long, slow groundswell
Torn, cut, worked over
And the steel road slicing through.
Low sheds full of secrets
Silos packed with wealth and mystery.
Flat as a skillet.
Only the trees
Muscular pylons shouldering powerlines
And the racing streak of the train
Break the line.
A sudden tunnel
Through a surprise hill
Coming out of nowhere.
The odd comedy of a deadpan country
And a suggestion of what’s ahead.
Farmyard junk, mouldering straw
The carcases of nameless machines;
The tell-tale symmetry of old spoil heaps
Now grassed over; the burial mounds of industries long dead
But still remembered
And never far below the surface.
Turbines and church spires
Jostle for airspace
Each tapping into and transmitting
Their own unseen sources of power.
In this unpeopled place.
The empty heart of England.
Random thoughts from the East Coast Main Line, somewhere between King’s Cross and Peterborough, earlier this week. N.