A low frequency
From the depths of the factory
Stirs old memories within the ageing workforce.

The men who work opposite,
In the greenhouse,
Pruning the greenhouse walls—
Producing strawberries and raspberries at a considerable rate—
Notice the days begin and restart,
Bathed under LED light.

And all—
All the men, all at once—
Set down their rusted tools,
And endeavour to
Move closer towards
Enlisting in repetitive thoughts.

It was as though we were cast in stone.
The weary ones knelt at the shore.
A fitting end to the journey,
Yet our souls still danced on the old, iron roads.
For it was the weak among us
Who gazed at Medusa—
Suckling on the ****** of her dread—
Fearing within their cold hearts
A cold, metallic fate:
To be left in stone on the old, iron roads.

It had been many weeks since I had seen Tokyo, and my gentle rowing would lead me back to Tokyo, back to a semblance of a piece of mind.

They had been frying the fish and chicken in the same oil at the local chip shop.

O! what is this? That was not chip!

We shall echo the points that scrape the skies
Above the streams of Wonder City.
On the streets below, men shall shift through time,
Watched on by soaring concrete.
And in the steaming sewers strewn beneath
These streets— O Wonder City!—
Rats shall run the labyrinth of the sewers
To find the traces of a world
Before the streets of Wonder City.

The muffled barks— craving sleep—
Stir weary eyes on sodden streets.
A desolate man on heavy feet,
With cigarette roll clenched between grey teeth,
Mumbles to himself in the dead of night:
" 'Tis three O'clock. I have lost my soul."
Words uttered through mist if truth be told.

When we observe the waves which course through us—
The inner lives that continue to go on—
Unfolding the scroll of hidden lives
Becomes the distant past.

We feed the bodies of churning water
Which span the breadth of time.
Waters which flow in close proximity
To wandering, wavering lines.

Only then,
Near the edge of setting Sun—
Abound with wavering lines—
Will the doors of binding light unlock
And reveal the shores of on and on.

The red soil rises in the garden
Upon a wrought and coiling mist,
Then collects the stems of morning light:
Old Future's endless sift.

These mornings when the flood plains swell
Instil great peace of mind;
Tireless are the crossroads of
Transpiring, morning light.

Set down the blade,
Spread far the grain,
Inhale the rice-fed air;
Now rake the water's fervent edge,
Revealing waves of golden.

The grey lines etch
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.
A blade makes contact through the fine, stone mist.
Stagnant,
Sanding down the beating end of a hammer,
Trapped shapes appear,
Revealing new ways to approach
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.