Sumner Road.

  Scarce of traffic, vehicular or pedestrian, Sumner Road stretches east-west across the early evening dereliction that was once lined with kempt and pretty red bricked terraces and local businesses, but now is bordered only by bombed-out and mostly abandoned buildings resembling broken teeth. Some are so destroyed that the backyards, wild with nettles, can … Continue reading Sumner Road.

The Wronged Tree.

The back lane, this new-year dawn, is littered, bleakly - tumbled bins, spent bottles, knuckled tabs, sodden boxes; hound shites, plastic wraps, a quilted headboard, yellowed hand towel; wrapping-paper tumbleweeds troubling parked cars; a bloody gown of herring gull (gutting something); and the last, the very last, or the first, Christmas tree, skulking and skittling … Continue reading The Wronged Tree.

Butter Door.

The old man passed over the rooftop of Brinton farm and Middlely. The night orange hiss glowed above the county towns to the north. The countryside. He threaded the stars orange spangleblue and white. There was a sound that followed him. Not the hissing electricity sparking from the shoulders of the pylons over the towns … Continue reading Butter Door.