To this idle county, where a dozen stations stand in wait to loan the City her suits and collect them, weary, at the day’s end.
Descend the chasm that splits England’s pleasant pastures and concrete miles; a balancing or cancelling act that renders neutral –
but each Spring I watch from my window the azaleas that blossom in my neighbours’ garden, the petals peeling, revealing, coming undone by the swelling heat.
Be here, Scarlett, let me watch our shadows spread across my wall as the shifting sky paints the room, like burning embers.