People unaware of future build houses on past, make layers over ancestors, history is a foundation stone, statue, plaque.

Fields, green, gold, purple separated by hedges, woods, can be seen for miles around. Farmers market town.

No houses, no shops, only cars, lorries, caravans, boats. All on move. Snack food, traffic convoys. Mobile towns, no rest.

where strangers pick up strangers No one knows another, because they do not know how. Families are unknown to each other.

Silence compulsory as  people need to listen to gusts special language, sometimes warm gentle touch, others cold ferocious.

No maps, no street signs, no road signs. People navigate with natural signs, moss on trees, plants grow particular places.

Deliberate acts have random consequences. Blow on your food to cool it down, people die in missile attack.

Buses are butterflies all blue and gold. Blind Mary and I caught one to the black glass wedding.

Young, dead Lozzy comes walking on water down the canal bright and shiny like a new kitchen surface.

The Man’s Landrover is a poisonous flower, lily packed with dust of death. He climbs out of the lily dust flying like red flour.

He is the politest of men.
“Pardon me, young Lady”
to Blind Mary who coughs,
overcome by dust.

Lozzy, my poor dead son is a vacuum cleaner with severe asthma. He inhales the Man of Dust and knows what it means.

Man of Dusts’ minder of water floods the vacuum cleaner. Lozzy coughs splutters. First gift carved coal elephant trunk inhales.

Coal sculpture elephant sprays the water over his back, as if having a wash. Black dust billows. Black mingles with red dust.

Lozzy vacuums the Man of Dust. Disposes of him in the Place of No Breath. And if the dust meets breath, life. Dust waits.