Under flecked white blue, old men weary on metal forms, wives haul full plastic bags shop on.

Branches bend leaves rustle and twitch, ghost in cemetery trees, quiet overcast, no wind, ghost juggles food in paws.

Folded red top newspapers racked to front door, pale blue vested, black shorts silver haired man, newspaper in hand

Freshly painted black coping stone in afternoon sun makes light. Tarmac repairs like solid shadow overlaid with shade

Beneath tarmac and pavement a field waits, creeps through weeds, rare flowers in spaces we ignore. The field waits.

Black plastic fall pipe storm disconnected, one green glass lager bottle atop bus stop revolving timetable

Bartholomew Stream, Frederick Stream, Main Stream, soon Weeping Willow, Lily Pads. Streets are streams.

Wombwell Is word made. Word ‘Sun’ is heavier today, than yesterday. Word ‘light’ is longer. Word ‘water’ rarer bought in bottle.

First lichens moss garden escapees spiders harvestmen beetles railway siding embankment: greening wasteland.

Across valley Darfield is a small Umbrian town, and Wombwell from there the same. Among coniferous greenery, home