River, river, riverrun, past even a dammed Frome, swirled – azure – to blend the Avon: sing us, by the coal-moved industry collage, shriek-undulation, hand-toil, south-west England, spring-tide songs.
The tall brick-stacks stood stark against the smoky skyline; there, refining houses backed their chimneys ‘til they brought them low by flame. A lone cone – modest pyramid – spewed subt’ly from its furnace, mould-melting glass to blue shapes, shipped ‘n sold decreasingly. Uncut timber lazes, log-like, on the stone-rise, hut beside, looking at the regiment of spears held still ‘n stoic, covered – cobweb – down from nest to deck.
Saint Brandon’s Hill hides the dist’ horizon with its new-built walks ‘n walls. The green’ry of its slopes backs the cruciform cathedral; the stark-red cross on white – raised – waves atop the tower.
The past: t’was present, as the present: t’was pushed passed. The world: t’was floating ‘midst the passing future.
He felt for the notebook, well-within the tattered tote, as the steam streamed from the all-too-sugared tea of milk-lightbrown.
“Whatever would you do if you, just the once, left home without those lined-leaves?”
Half-smile; breath-laugh.
“Suffer you, I imagine.”
Image credit – Historic England
william altoft 